The other varg did not run—which was probably a good thing, because Rogan wasn’t sure how he’d manage to control himself if he did. Once upon a time, someone sprinting away from him would have either offended or amused the vampire; now he experienced an odd tug in his chest, telling him he wouldn’t mind the thrill of pursuit. The thrill of the hunt. Should the earth-toned brute decide to leap away like a frightened deer, Rogan understood on a primal level that his legs would carry him after his perceived prey without thought or hesitation, while his fangs elongated in his panting mouth and his tongue lolled to taste the musk of fresh meat in the cool night air . . .

“Er . . . yes. There is.” The russet gladiator had been staring with undeniably preternatural fixation upon the stranger. Specifically, on that section of throat right below the brown boy’s jawbone, that softness unprotected by any sort of skeleton, thin skin allowing the sound of a healthy pulse to throb through. I’ve never . . . heard anything like this. Why is his heartbeat so loud? Is he afraid? But although the stranger stood with a certain suspicious stiffness, hackles vaguely prickled, he did not stink of fear. That hot, metallic tang did not taint his admittedly . . . tasty cologne. Rogan stretched his neck out a bit, lightly scenting the air, crimson eyes narrowed thoughtfully. This stranger smelled of moss-covered trees, of wet earth, and other wolves. A pack soldier. Did that mean he wasn’t fair game? Or should Rogan not care? Diosa had not warned him of any alliances with other kingdoms; perhaps Caidir Olc did not fear the repercussions of a grieving pack. Not that Rogan wanted to kill this man. Diosa hadn’t told him to KILL anyone to sate his hunger. Where had that thought come from? Why should Rogan even wonder what might happen if he murdered the hessian? He wouldn’t. He didn’t need to.

Grunting, the auburn warrior licked his jowls and settled back on his paws, trying to control his fangs when they wanted to jut outward.

“I’ve been charged by my princess to seek out other putnar. Apparently, regular prey will no longer satisfy my needs. I must quiet my stomach with the likes of you.” One giant paw shuffled forward, pushing leaves and decaying forest matter out of his path. Was it just his imagination, or did the stranger smell more and more delicious as he waited? How had Rogan not noticed the music of another wolf’s heart before? It was a rhythmic, pulsating hum in his auds, rapid compared to the slow beat of his own. He could heart each and every contraction, each release, the healthy rush of liquid life squeezed into arteries and flowing through veins. Rogan had been working so hard to keep his fangs in check that his jaw muscles ached; now he slavered without shame, starvation rumbling audibly in his guts and saliva dripping from his chin.

“Don’t run,” he ordered sternly, vibrant rubies pinning the stranger’s gaze. “If you run, I won’t be able to control myself.”