...Abby looked down to see her blood dripping into the soil of her grandmother’s grave.

“Hello, Abby. Nasty business with your hand there.”

She stiffened at the sound of the deep, vibrating voice coming from behind her. Her instinct was to answer his song—and it was music to her ears—every word he uttered had been a love song to her soul. She fought the instinct to respond in kind and felt the rupture of that denial. Abby inhaled sharply as an arrow of pain stabbed through her. She ignored it and slowly got to her feet. She brushed the dirt from her knees and then she turned to look at the tall, tanned man standing there.

He grabbed her hand and wrapped a white handkerchief around the injury. She stayed mute, unable to speak as she stared at his dark hair, streaked with thick strands of silver. Abby fought the urge to reach out and curl her fingers into the luxurious mass.

She bit her lip as he tied the handkerchief. Looking down at her hand she could see the crimson stains starting to leak through the pristine whiteness.

“I’ll ruin it,” she murmured.

“It’s not important. I’m glad you’re back, Abby.”

She was afraid to look up and into his astonishingly beautiful eyes. She dared not.

“Grandmother hated roses. She thought they were pretentious.”

“I know.” One of his strong, tanned hands settled beneath her chin, lifting her head to force her to look at him.

Puzzle pieces locking into place, the right key fit into an old lock, a broken heart pieced together. It was all there when her gaze connected with the molten amber color of his eyes. Everything stopped—the wind silenced, her breaths halted. The electricity in the air crackled.

The color of his eyes darkened to bronze, the hunger deeper as he slowly lowered his head toward hers. She wanted to move but couldn’t. She wanted to breathe but dared not divert the strength required to take a breath, lest she reach out for him. The charge of power like little ripples of energy undulated through her as he brushed his lips over hers.

And then his hard lips fastened to hers and an explosion erupted inside her chest, particles showering down through her body, grinding into her womb, burning and clawing its way to her nether regions. She felt her cream flow, her pussy wet, her labia lips enflame as his familiar, male taste soared inside her, embedding itself into the fabric of her skin—so easily breaching the walls she’d erected.

She clung to him as he deepened the kiss, as he bent her, molded her to the hard, lean length of his powerful body. Flashing images poured into her, of the first time he’d fucked her—of the bleachers, the park, the mountain, the pond. Of rolling in the autumn leaves, of the pumpkin patch, of fucking him anywhere and everywhere. And the memory of it never being enough.

But they’d never done it in the cemetery.

She was powerless to end the embrace, powerless to walk away from him. And then suddenly he released her. She collapsed onto the ground, onto the moist freshly turned earth of her grandmother’s grave. Her fingers dug deeply into the rich, wet texture as she looked up at him. Her lips burned, she could feel the wetness of blood where one of his sharp incisors had probably ripped into her flesh. She licked it clean, tasting the metallic flavor of primal lust that only he could elicit from her. There was now a ball of energy, like a small sun pulsing inside her, awoken from its hibernation. She fought for control.

“Not yet, Abby. But soon.” He turned and strode away as though he had all the time in the world.

And then she saw the lethally attractive man with the long hair waiting for him at the iron gate. Dangerous was the first word that came to mind when she thought of Taggart. A predator who boldly took what he wanted And yet gave with an all-consuming passion. She shouldn’t be surprised he was there with Lash. Lash was Taggart’s passion. But he had found room to give to Abby as well. Because Lash wanted it. And then that last bit of memory locked into place.

She knew the heat that pervaded her body, the fire that Lash had ignited would not be quenched until she had him—had them—once again beneath the lure of the full moon.

Lash MacKenzie and Taggart Este. As she watched them mount the hill on the other side of the cemetery, they slowly stripped away the veneer of their humanity. The tug of arousal almost had her doubling with the intensity that seemed to split her in two. Dwindling autumn sunlight illuminated them with a fiery halo of orange-gold flame as they shifted into animal form. For Lash it was simply a shift of convenient shape, but Taggart was coyote clean through. Sly, cunning, and clever. Cut from the coattails of his absent coyote father. With Tag she hated wanting him, needing him, desiring him. She fought the attraction she had for these two men, who were so much more than human. Lash who wanted her, but didn’t love her. Tag who loved Lash and thus tolerated her. She hated the love that surged upward, rearing its magnificent head. At the knoll they turned as one to gaze down at her.

She turned away, looking down at her grandmother’s grave, wanting to ignore them, to wipe the memory of them from her mind. The silence of a late fall afternoon surrounded her as she stood there alone. More alone than she had ever felt before. A breeze stirred the brittle, fallen leaves of orange and rust and red and gold. She tilted her head and listened. She heard the earth singing to her—a low, steady hum, the air vibrated, sliding across her flesh, and she inhaled deeply.