Page 17

The music is deafening — some horrible techno remix of a trending pop song — and the buzz of the bass rattles my ribs. Fake smoke swirls near the ceiling as strobe lights and laser beams flash in the dark, and dozens of different smells bombard my senses.

Cologne.

Sweat.

Laundry detergent.

Alcohol.

Bodies are crammed so close together that I can’t see an inch of floor space. My boss, Eli, would have a fit if he were here. Loud music, poor visibility, too many bodies — it’s a security nightmare.

Out of habit, I locate all my exits and scan the perimeter for anyone who looks as though they don’t belong. I’d been worried about Elena getting roofied or groped in some dark corner, but venues like this give my wolf fits — especially since Eli trained me to look for threats.

I find the bachelorettes doing tequila shots at the bar and roll my eyes. Typical Carmen. The woman is trouble with a capital T.

I can already see the vultures circling — douchey-looking guys in their early- to midtwenties. My senses tell me they’re all human, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t a threat. I see the predatory way their eyes rove over Elena — even if she doesn’t.

One man in a pink T-shirt heads straight for her. He’s either going to try to buy her a drink or ask her to dance.

Over my dead body.

Not bothering to check my shifter speed, I shoot over to her side, brushing past Pink Shirt in a blur. The guy looks to his side, clearly confused, but I’m moving too fast for him to see me.

In two seconds flat, I’m standing beside her. Elena looks startled by my sudden appearance, and I see the pulse in her neck jump.

“Wanna dance?” I ask, leaning in close so I don’t have to shout. It’s so damn loud in here I’m not sure how Carmen or the other she-wolves can stand it.

“What?”

“Do you — want — to dance?” I repeat, speaking loud enough for Pink Shirt to hear. I’m close enough that I can smell the sweet tang of her sweat and the grapefruit seltzer on her breath.

Elena gives me a funny look, her lips pinching as she tries to suppress a smile. “Withyou?”

“Yes, me!” This time, I do shout. Irritation pricks my insides. Why is she looking at me as though I just beamed down from another planet?

“O-kay . . .” Elena’s voice is cautious but not displeased.

My wolf preens, and I resist the urge to fist pump as I take her dainty hand and lead her onto the dance floor. Her fingers are warm as they curl around mine, and my heart gives a happy little jolt.

Men are idiots. Women risk life and limb coming to these horrible clubs where they might get drugged or assaulted because they love to dance. And yet, dudes leave them sidelined by the bar all the damn time.

My girl loves to dance more than most. Elena fuckinglivesfor it.

The music fades into another upbeat pop song, and I twirl her around. Elena’s golden dress catches the purplish strobe light as she spins, a laugh slipping out of her.

Damn. She issofucking gorgeous.

I know my moves won’t be up to her standards, but I’m not a bad dancer. I try to lead and give her the chancetoreallyshow what she can do. But then she starts to sway those hips, and I just can’t stop myself.

I spin her around and pull her close, her perfect ass nestling against me. I feel her sharp intake of breath, and for a moment, she goes absolutely still.

Elena’s scent overwhelms me — vanilla and coconut and something warm and sweet that’s only her. My heart feels as though it’s left my body — pounding between us as I wait to see if she’ll pull away.

She doesn’t.

Tentatively, I slide my hands down to grip her hips and start to move her with the beat. Elena’s body moves in perfect sync with mine, and suddenly, I can’t breathe.

The swell of the music overwhelms my pitiful heart, and everything else melts away. I’m drowning in a cloud of coconut heaven — drowning inher.