Free Twilight Hunter (The Execution Underground) by Kait Ballenger

right?”
    When she didn’t respond a sense of relief cleared his heightened nerves, but the knot in his chest kept on squeezing.
    What was it about this woman that drove him mad, but made him feel like such a dick for wanting her? There couldn’t really be something to that whole mating bull she was talking about, could there? He frowned.
    She’s a werewolf. She’s a werewolf. He repeated the mantra and focused on the image of his father, seared into his brain.
    Over the years he’d envisioned the face of a werewolf seductress. With the bat of one eyelash, she’d stolen his father and ended his mother’s abuse, but left their family shattered. He squeezed his eyes shut and imagined Princess as that woman, that temptress. But the light in her warm eyes ruined everything. He wanted to hate her, but every instinct pushed him into her arms.
    “McCannon. Is that Irish or Scottish?” The question wrenched him into the moment.
    “What?”
    “Your last name, is it Irish or Scottish?” Her voice carried from the other room with ease—loud and forceful, but still feminine.
    “Why the hell does it matter?” He opened one of the cabinets and rummaged around, even though it was virtually bare. A can of soup. Some ramen noodles.
    “I’d like to know.”
    He settled on some bread and pulled a few slices of ham from the refrigerator. “Why in the world do you want to play twenty questions with a man who took you captive and now has you chained to a bed?” He slapped together a sandwich and bit into it.
    “According to your alarm clock, we have ten minutes until the supernatural hour. It would make me a bit uneasy if I didn’t get to know you before we start...well, you know....”
    “I don’t know what the hell you’re trying to sell me, but I ain’t buying.” He finished the last bite of the sandwich, eating at light speed.
    “Suit yourself. Believe me, I’m not seducing you, and if it were my decision, you’d walk out of this apartment or let me go. It would spare us both a lot of unpleasantness. But since you don’t believe me, you’ll have to see for yourself.”
    His stomach growled. Ignoring her, he sifted through the cabinets again.
    She sighed. “You could humor me a little. If I’m wrong, what will it hurt?”
    He paused and gripped the cabinet handle a little too hard. “Irish.”
    “See. Was that so difficult?”
    He gritted his teeth. “Don’t push it.”
    “If you’d like to know, I’m Italian.”
    “No, I wouldn’t like to know.” His jaw clenched tighter.
    “I, however, want to tell you. As I said, my name is Francesca. I’m Italian, born and raised here in Rochester. I own a dance studio, and when I can, I teach salsa classes myself. My favorite color is red, but I look best in blue, and I hate long walks on the beach.”
    “A salsa-dancing werewolf?”
    “Yes, an award-winning, salsa-dancing werewolf,” she said.
    He leaned on the counter and rested his head in his hands. He thought of how she would look in one of those skimpy little dance costumes, her hips swinging, the flashy red beading on her round behind shaking, her leg muscles flexing as she moved in her spiked heels. His cock hardened, and his longing escalated. No other woman had ever driven him so crazy.
    She’s a werewolf. She’s a werewolf .
    A beautiful smell, like sweet gardenias, wafted into his nose and broke his resolve a little further. He was imagining this. Could the smell of her hair, her skin, literally reach out to him? Good Lord, his dick ached. He slammed his fist onto the countertop. A liquor bottle fell from the top shelf with a crash and shattered. The contents splashed over the counter and onto his shirt. Whiskey trickled onto the floor.
    “What was that?” she called. Her voice rang in his ears like a melody, a siren’s call. What the hell?
    She’s wrong. I’m not one of them.
    “There is no fucking mating cycle, and it has nothing to do with me,” he muttered.
    He paced from the kitchen