POV: Daniel

The doors gave before I touched them. Hinges screamed, wood and metal splitting like bone, and the library opened its throat to me.

Her scent hit first. Paper and polish, dust and ink—but buried under it, the salt of her fear, the sharp edge of her adrenaline. Clara Reynolds. Alive. Shaking. Close. Wrong air around her.

The wrong air had fangs.

The wolf had his hand in her collar; two fingers pinched like she was a leash he’d just clipped. Young, lean, ...