Serena Frostborne had hugged him and Gavriel Sterling had almost detonated.
Her arms had gone around him. Her body had pressed against his chest. Her scent had hit his bloodstream at point-blank range, and the range was zero, and the zero was catastrophic.
The scent at zero distance was a hundred times more concentrated than the scent on the wind and the concentration went through his nervous system like lightning through a copper rod.
Rook lost his mind.
The wolf surged so hard Gavriel's vision flickered gold at the edges. His hands had been at his sides, neutral, safe, and Rook had tried to lift them, tried to put them on her back, tried to complete the hug with the possessive, full-armed hold of a wolf claiming his mate in front of a crowd.
It was so aggressive that Gavriel's right hand had twitched three inches upward before he caught it and forced it back down with the muscular effort of a man arm-wrestling himself.
