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    Obsession: Grey Wolves Rising, #2
    Obsession: Grey Wolves Rising, #2
    Obsession: Grey Wolves Rising, #2
    Ebook63 pages1 hour

    Obsession: Grey Wolves Rising, #2

    By Emma Storm

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    About this ebook

    Time is always ticking—for a werewolf whose time to claim his mate is drawing to an end; for a young woman whose one link to her past is hanging on by a thread. Nobody is immune to its passage. So when Tara Lockhardt finds herself snowed in at a tiny motel in the Great Lakes town of Calla Beach, Michigan, trapped against the wall of a public bathroom, a darkly dangerous werewolf’s nose buried in her hair, she’s not as eager to flee as she should be.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherEmma Storm
    Release dateMar 21, 2017
    ISBN9781386641452
    Obsession: Grey Wolves Rising, #2

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      Book preview

      Obsession - Emma Storm

      Time is always ticking—for a werewolf whose time to claim his mate is drawing to an end; for a young woman whose one link to her past is hanging on by a thread. Nobody is immune to its passage. So when Tara Lockhardt finds herself snowed in at a tiny motel in the Great Lakes town of Calla Beach, Michigan, trapped against the wall of a public bathroom, a darkly dangerous werewolf’s nose buried in her hair, she’s not as eager to flee as she should be.

      1

      Eye-fucked a darkly dangerous-looking stranger in a seedy bar. Didn’t have to search for my panties because they melted clean off before he so much as asked my name. Hope you’re well!—

      Wasn’t a note Tara Lockhardt would have imagined herself scribbling on the back of a postcard, but tiny, blizzardy Calla Beach, Michigan, didn’t have the same kind of glossy, color-saturated sunsets most beach destinations boasted. Calla Beach didn’t need sunsets if it grew men who looked like him.

      Because good Southern girls didn’t just blatantly devour strangers with their eyes, she dropped her gaze to the mug of Irish coffee she’d already half consumed. The drink was her second and despite the generous helping of whiskey buzzing in her belly, she couldn’t seem to get warm.

      Another hot shower might help but she wasn’t sure she could handle a third scrubbing in as many hours. She just couldn’t get rid of the sick-sweet scent of death, not with floral, fruity or even masculine body washes. The idea of carrying the smell with her forever was almost more difficult to bear than the certainty that death had really, finally arrived.

      Ultimately, she rejected the shower. She couldn’t escape the smell but she could distract herself. Besides, her eyes might never recover if she passed up her chance to ogle that stranger.He didn’t dress like every other Calla Beach resident she’d encountered, but he moved through the tiny bar and greeted the lone bartender like he knew her. That sparked a little flame of jealousy. Tara bit her lip. She wanted to know him, wanted to smooth her hands over the short-shorn hair revealed by the leather tie that secured the longer strands of his undercut. He didn’t hide the hard breadth of his shoulders and chiseled line of his narrow hips under one of those fluffy parkas the locals wore. She knew she should be rolling her eyes over the foolishness of a beaten-up, not even buttoned up, trench coat (and, really? A trench in this weather?) but, honestly, she was just happy to look and make up her own story about him.

      Maybe he was a vampire, but not the froofy lace-dripping style who only sipped blood from jeweled goblets. More like the bad-ass, suck bad guys dry in a trash-strewn alley type.

      As if he felt the weight of her gaze, he abruptly turned his head and looked at her. The light from the neon beer signs hit his eyes just so, giving them a glowy copper sheen—vampire-like—and she choked on a sip of spiked coffee.

      Whiskey burned her throat and seared her sinuses. Gasping, unable to see clearly through her watering eyes, she clumsily pushed her mug aside and snatched up the napkin that came with her drink.

      Conversation at the other end of the bar halted, but an instant later, the lounge phone started to ring. Grateful for the distraction, Tara slid off her stool and aimed herself toward the narrow hall that lead to the bathrooms.

      The paper towel dispenser was an old-fashioned style with a cloth towel on a belt, preventing her from snatching a few sheets for her face. Grabbing toilet paper, she wiped at her teary eyes until her coughing downgraded to pathetic sniffles and she could see her reflection in the spotty mirror.

      The overhead fluorescent bulbs flickered, casting her flushed face in sickly shadow. All at once, the sense of freedom that had slowly unfurled over the past few days snapped up tight. How many harsh fluorescent lights had she stood beneath, tear-stained and sniffling just like this? And how many more before death—

      A rattling knob was all the warning Tara got before the door swung inward and the object of her fanciful imaginings stepped inside. Mouth open, she watched dumbly as he closed

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