Master of Smoke

take on four werewolves and win.”
    “That’s because you can’t. Luckily, they won’t send four wolves against you. I’m Warlock’s primary target, which will make me the main threat in their minds. So they’ll send most of their number against me, with one wolf to get you under control so they can play with you later. But you’re going to turn the tables.”
    “Ummm. Turn the tables. Right.”
    “Grab my wrists and try to keep me from pulling free.”
    She obeyed cautiously. He started jerking back and forth, so she tightened her grip until he finally stopped. “You see how pointless this is,” David told her. “You can hold on all day while I tire myself out. Attacking into your strength is not only a waste of time, it would eventually get me killed. I need to attack your weaknesses.” His sneakered heel abruptly rammed her shin with bruising force. She lost her grip in surprise at the shooting pain.
    Twisting, he hooked a foot behind her knee and shot his elbow into the underside of her jaw, snapping her head around. She fell flat on her ass, and he kicked right between her legs, pulling it at the last moment so the blow did not land with full force. Even so, it stung.
    “That’s always a good target,” David told her cheerfully, “especially since your pants vanish when you change.”
    “Kick ’em in the ’nads,” Eva said dryly, staring up at the leafy canopy over her head while she waited for the pain to fade. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
    “Do whatever wins, darling. Now grab me from behind.”
    Thirty seconds later, she was on her ass again.

    He had her attack him from the front, from behind, and from the side, then from lying on top of him, then from lying on his back. Each time, she thought she had him pinned beyond his ability to escape, yet he’d throw her off, sometimes with a simple thrust of his hip. Then he’d slam an elbow into her jaw, throat, or ribs, curl his fingers into her cheek in lieu of clawing her eyes, or kick her in the shin, thigh, belly, or ribs.
    Once she was sore and thoroughly pissed off, if not particularly hurt, he had her change to human form and started teaching her how to use the same techniques against him.
    “The difference in height and strength is about the same between me and you in human form as between you and the wolves when you change,” David explained.
    The kicks, strikes and throws he demonstrated weren’t complicated, but they were surprisingly effective. Eva and David practiced them all day and well into the evening, hour after hour.
    By the time they got home, her muscles felt like overcooked pasta. Sore, overcooked pasta.

    Eva lay stretched out across the width of the bed, naked and clean. She’d had a shower and an impressive supper, but she still felt as drained as a teenager’s cell phone the day of the senior prom. “I used to think you were a nice man. I was wrong. I was so, sooo wrong.”
    Equally naked, David rattled around in a bedside bureau, pulled out a bottle, and considered the label. “Perhaps this will help.” His grin was distinctly wicked.
    She whimpered as he climbed onto the bed to straddle her ass. “David, like I told you in the shower, I’m too tired and full for sex.”
    Speak for yourself, Fluffy told her.
    Hey, you ate all those Whoppers. She’d been too exhausted to cook.
    I’m not taking the rap for that. You were the one stuffing your face.
    Because you threatened to eat the neighbor’s dog if I didn’t stop at Burger King.
    “This is not sex.” David poured a handful of something from the bottle. “This is a massage.”
    Too wrung out to move, Eva rolled her eyes to watch him warily. “How do you know how to do a massage?”
    “The same way I know how to do everything else.”
    “Good point.” Big hands landed on her shoulders, and long, slick fingers dug into knotted muscle in a burst of instant heat. He’d found the warming oil. “Oh, holy God.”
    The man was right—he was as good at giving a massage as he was at everything else. Really, really good.
    He coaxed the kinks from her back with a precise pressure calibrated just short of pain. And that oil—God knew when or why she’d bought it—left a trail of heat everywhere his kneading fingers touched, filling the air with the smell of cinnamon. He found knotted muscles she hadn’t even known she had and worked them like bread dough until they released.
    She started purring. He purred back, a throaty rumble that made