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Prologue: The Mark
The tattoo parlor should have been closed.
Nyx Moreau knew that. It was three in the morning, rain hammering against the windows of Crimson Ink like the fists of the damned. She should have been home, asleep, not hunched over her sketchbook adding finishing touches to a design that had consumed her for the past week.
The design had come to her in dreams—intricate spirals and geometric patterns that seemed to shift and breathe on the page. Ancient. Powerful. Wrong in a way that made her fingers itch to ink it into skin.
When the door chimed, she looked up, startled. The man who entered was tall enough that he had to duck beneath the frame, broad-shouldered and moving with a predator's fluid grace. Water streamed from his dark hair, plastering it to a face that could have been carved from granite—all sharp angles and brutal beauty. His eyes were the color of molten gold.
And they locked onto her with an intensity that stole her breath.
"We're closed," Nyx said, but her voice came out wrong. Breathless. Wanting.
"You're here." His voice was deep, resonant, with an accent she couldn't place. Old World. Ancient. "That's all that matters."
He moved closer, and Nyx caught his scent—smoke and copper and something wild, like ozone before a lightning strike. Her pulse kicked into overdrive, her skin suddenly too tight, too hot.
"I need ink," he said, and the way he said it made it sound like I need you. "I've been searching for the right artist. The right hands." His golden eyes dropped to her hands, and she felt that gaze like a physical touch. "Your hands."
Nyx swallowed hard. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but a deeper, older part of her refused to move. "What do you want?"
He smiled, revealing teeth that seemed slightly too sharp. "I want you to mark me with the design you've been dreaming about."
Her blood went cold. "How did you—"
"Because I've been dreaming it too." He pulled off his leather jacket, revealing arms corded with muscle and covered in scars. Old scars. Battle scars. "For eight centuries, I've been dreaming of the pattern. And of the woman who would ink it into my skin." He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him. "I've been dreaming of you, Nyx Moreau."
She should have demanded he leave. Should have called the cops. Instead, she heard herself say, "Show me where you want it."
His smile was savage and beautiful and terrifying. He pulled his shirt over his head, revealing a torso that looked like it had been sculpted by a god with a fetish for warriors—defined muscles, brutal scars, and smooth golden skin stretched over raw power.
"Here," he said, pressing his palm over his heart. "Where the bond will take ...
Dante Rivers spent a decade traveling through the forests and ancient ruins of Eastern Europe, collecting folklore and mythology that would later breathe life into his supernatural romances. A researcher at heart, he became fascinated by the primal stories of shapeshifters, vampires, and fated mates that transcend cultures. From his cabin deep in the Pacific Northwest woods, Dante channels these ancient tales into modern paranormal romance. His unique perspective as a male author brings authenticity to the alpha male psyche—the struggle between beast and man, the protective instinct, the all-consuming need to claim one's mate.
