Before I could finish, he rolled me over and laid me down beside him, then swung out of bed. His pants were still around his knees and he reached down, as if to pull them up, then kicked them off and tossed them onto a chair, socks following. His shirt had disappeared at some point.

I propped myself up to watch as he crossed to the minibar, and remembered the first time I’d seen Karl shirtless. The morning after our night at the museum, I’d walked in on him fixing the bandage on his shoulder, his shirt half off. He’d jumped, pulling the shirt on as fast as a shy twelve-year-old. With Karl, it was the scars he was quick to hide—old bite and claw marks across his chest, the legacy of thirty years fighting other werewolves.

Those scars belied the smooth, sophisticated persona he cultivated, of a man who’d never stoop to anything as uncivilized as brawling. Tonight he’d shown that he was as quick with his fists as with his words, and he offered no apologies for that, but it wasn’t how he liked to be seen. I suspected he’d conducted many an affair under cover of near-darkness.

So watching him, naked, I could appreciate that I was viewing a sight rarely seen. My tastes had always tended more toward reedy Bohemian types, but Karl made me admit that I wasn’t immune to a more…masculine physique. No bulging muscles, but perfectly toned. Even the scars seemed to fit—a body for function, not show.

He crouched before the fridge and fished out bottles. As he turned, I resisted the urge to look away and let my gaze slide over him.

“You look…amazing.”

He arched his brows in genuine surprise, then lifted the bottles. “You’re supposed to say that after I get you drunk.”

“Am I?”

He grabbed glasses, sliding the stems between his fingers so he could carry them. “Yes, because then you can blame it on the alcohol. Otherwise you risk inflating an ego that you know needs no help.” He crossed back to me, setting the bottles and glasses on the nightstand. “And may I say in return that you look perfect.”

I looked into his eyes and knew there was no sense lying to myself anymore. I was in love with him. More than that, I loved him. It had nothing to do with what Griffin said—a chaotic man for a chaos-loving demon. Karl knew when I needed to be set on my feet with a sharp word and a kick in the butt, and he knew when I needed someone to look out for me, and coddle me and tell me that I’m perfect.