It would take only one human to believe in their existence, one persistent human who could entice others into believing, one human who could gather a group of hunters who could seriously deplete an already endangered species or even perhaps do the unthinkable—wipe the lycans’ existence from the face of the earth.

Although not lethal, the injury the arrow had caused hurt like hell, and the brief contact he’d had with the iron hadn’t helped either. He was pissed and in pain. Pain and pissed never sat well with him, and he pictured snapping the neck of the son of a bitch who had just shot him—the one he was now closing in on. He hadn’t taken the time to shift and heal his wound, refusing to allow any more advantage to the soon-to-be dead man.

He never doubted for a moment that he’d catch his man. Even the hesitation of being shot hadn’t kept him from catching up. But why would a human have taken a shot at him while he’d been in human form? With a silver-tipped arrow nonetheless? How had the man known he was a lycan and not a real human? Because he didn’t believe for a moment it had been a simple case of mistaken identity by a lone hunter. No game hunter he’d known had hunted with iron-shafted arrows tipped with silver. The extra weight of the iron shafts would have taken practice to accurately shoot—and his shooter was a precise shot. If his instincts hadn’t alerted him to the impending danger, the arrow would have gone straight through his heart.

Labored breaths gave proof that the man was tiring, and Knox smiled. Pushing the throbbing pain in his chest out of his mind, he sped up and leaped onto the man’s back. They landed hard in the snow, and he could hear a satisfying whoosh as all the air was knocked from the lungs of his attacker. When he flipped the man over, his eyes widened in shock. This was not a man at all. It was a woman.

A gorgeous woman with full lips and eyes the color of crystalline aqua water stared up at him.

Unfortunately, his surprise at her beauty, and at the fact that she was a woman, gave her all the hesitation she needed. She brought her knee up hard in his groin, and when he groaned, he swore he could feel his nuts lodged just under his tonsils. As he regained his composure and reached for her again, she slid a dagger from her boot and sliced an arc across his chest. Instinctively he reared back.

The action kept the blade from going deep, but not from cutting through his skin like butter.

She raised the dagger for another go at his chest, but he caught her wrist and squeezed until she gasped.

He could break her delicate bones easily, and he’d be a liar if he denied a small part of him didn’t want to do just that. She was determined. He’d give her that. She fought hard to maintain her grip on the hilt, but it took only a few seconds before her fingers went limp under the pressure of his fingers and the blade fell harmlessly into the deep snow beside them.

His body hardened when she squirmed under him, and he tightened his knees around her hips, effectively stilling her. She didn’t have a chance of getting loose unless he let her, and he was sure she knew that by the way her cheeks burned red with anger and her eyes spit daggers at him. He started to wonder why he was having such a strong sexual reaction to her, thinking he’d been too long without a woman if one who’d just nearly castrated him stoked his blood so quickly. A split second later that question was answered for him as two subtle scents—ones previously masked by the deer urine she was drenched in—tickled his nose.

He froze and stared down at her in wonderment. This woman carried the main scent, but she also carried the mated scent—the first of which all of his kind could detect, but the second called only to him. His nostrils flared, and his body tensed in primal need. She was his. After all of those long, lonely years thinking he would never meet her, thinking a rogue would most likely get to her before he ever would, she was here. His mate.

Mine!

His inner wolf became restless, and paced inside him growling, howling to get out, but Knox refused to let him have free rein, knowing he would not be able to control the animal from claiming what was rightfully his.

He would never harm her, never take her against her will. He’d rather die than cause her any pain. He stared at her in awe. He’d never laid eyes on her until this moment, but he already knew she was perfect.

“No!” Her eyes flew wide open, and she tried to buck him off her again with no success. “Kill me, but don’t you dare lay a finger on me, or I swear I’ll rip your heart out.”

“I’m not going to kill you or hurt you.” Her voice—scathing as it was—was like salve to a wound, calming music to his chaotic soul.

“You’re an animal! I know what your kind does. You should be dead right now. Why couldn’t you have stayed still? A monster like you deserves to die.” Her words were laced with venom and hatred.

He laughed, but quickly subdued it when her eyes flared with anger. She’d obviously come in contact with lycans before—rogue lycans by the sound of it. The urge to take her in his arms and make her forget whatever had made her hate his kind nearly made him lose his head and let her go, a mistake that would no doubt get him kneed, or worse, again.

“Oh, I’m so sorry I didn’t stand perfectly still so you could slaughter me. The nerve of me.” He teased her, but could tell she didn’t find him amusing in the least.

“Do us both a favor, and let me finish what I started.”

“First of all, it would take much more than your pathetic arrow in my heart to kill me, and secondly, I’m not a monster. I’m just like you, more or less.” The words were a little harsher than he’d intended, but he was irritated how easily she could get under his skin and make him want to act irrationally. She’d tried to kill him, and still he wanted to let her go. If he did so, she’d try to kill him again, and he’d have to subdue her—again—

and run the risk of hurting her.

If she were anyone else, he would have already knocked her unconscious, shoved her in her truck, and would at this moment be driving back to his house for a long night of questioning that may very well end up in her death. Now that he knew she was his, he’d never be able to harm her, but he wasn’t going to let her in on that information—at least not yet.

She laughed, and even though it was drenched with scorn, the sound made his heart jump for joy. He’d never expected to find his mate, but her obvious hatred for his kind did pose a bit of a problem. He laughed inwardly . A bit of a problem. She hates me, and she doesn’t even know me. Her hatred of his kind was obviously embedded deep, and he wondered if he’d be able to convince her that not all lycans were uncaring assholes.

Well, actually, come to think of it, he was an asshole, but he’d never hurt someone for that reason alone.

Suddenly, rage shot through him at the thought of her alone in the woods hunting him. What would have happened had he been a rogue? Had a rogue already hurt her in the past, or had she known someone who had been hurt by one? Was that why she hated his kind? The horrible possibilities slammed through his brain, ignited his blood to boiling, and made his gut clench in anger.

“You are nothing like I am.” She spit at him, but he dodged the spittle as it flew harmlessly in the air past his shoulder.

Her eyes burned with fiery rage. Whatever had made her hate his kind was personal. Oh yeah, that kind of hatred isn’t born of stories from others. Either she, a loved one, or both had had an unpleasant encounter with a rogue. No lycan who hadn’t gone rogue would have ever hurt her in any way.

“No offense, lady, but you don’t know me.” He didn’t particularly care for those who judged people by the actions of others, but she wasn’t just anyone, and this wasn’t your normal everyday situation.

Everyone was different, and a particular skin color, geographic area, or stereotype didn’t apply to every individual who fell into those categories. Yet could he blame her for assuming he was like all other rogue lycans if she had, in fact, only ever encountered them? Not really.

An icy sliver of dread snaked down his spine. He’d seen the results left behind by rogues. The images were forever burned into his brain, and to think that she’d been subjected to any abuse by the bastards was inconceivable.

“I know your kind, and you deserve to die.”

“I’m sorry if you’ve had bad experiences with my type”—how much did she know about his kind, he wondered—“but we aren’t all alike.” He frowned down at her.

“Let’s call it like it is. I know what you are. You are a lycan, a shape-shifter, and you are an abomination that needs to be sent back where you were spawned—hell.”

“If you know so much about lycans, then you should know that silver won’t kill us. It’s only a myth.”

“It’s served me well in the past.”

“The only reason it’s served you well is, I’m assuming”—he glanced down at the blood covering his shirt—“most of the time you are a pretty good shot.” Had he not twisted out of the way at the last second, she would have planted that arrow right in his heart. “While an arrow in the heart is capable of killing a lycan, it won’t kill him if he can change and heal the wound. The silver isn’t what would take him out. If he dies, it’s because either the wound stops the heart instantly, or he bleeds out too fast and becomes too weak to change.”

“Are you saying all of those bastards I’ve killed over the years could have survived?” Her brows drew down, and she frowned.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them did. I would have.” He wasn’t about to tell her that the real weapon was the iron shaft attached to the silver arrow. Had she succeeded in getting it through his heart, he would have been in deep shit.