His soul had begun to breathe. Mischa was the woman he’d waited for, the one woman who would free him from the torment of his life. The moment he heard her voice, he knew.

The foundation beneath his feet had begun to shift and just watching her had given him the feeling of rebirth. He didn’t know how she’d gotten to his front door, but he knew why.

He brought his hands to his face and imagined he could still feel the warmth of her skin. Beautiful. Sexy. Passionate. Mischa embodied them all and more.

He poured himself a glass of cognac and swirled it around in the snifter. The fragrance wafted up to him, but he didn’t enjoy the pleasant aroma as he usually did. Something more captured his senses.

He pictured her curves, those graceful long legs, the pert breasts with dark nipples and the proud tilt of her head. Her long, silky black hair hung to her waist and caught the light as she moved and those eyes—he let out a groan—perfection. He’d never seen eyes the color of a perfect amethyst.

Mischa Bonovich stirred him, made him remember the male side of the beast within him. He curled his hands into fists. Already he craved her and not the taste of her warm blood cascading over his tongue, but the feel of her body writhing beneath his.

She hypnotized him, and the knowledge was heady. Did the Fates have a hand in her arrival? The question would go unanswered for now. It didn’t matter. She was here, and he felt alive again.

How could a woman create such powerful emotions within a man who’d long ago given up the thought of having any type of real life? He sat down in a red velvet settee and took a sip of the cognac. It glided over his tongue, its taste pure and powerful. Just as the woman upstairs.