No, scratch that. Make it plural. He wanted to move, wanted to pound his fists into someone until they bled—and the rogues would make a damned fine punching bag. The pounding rhythm of the house music vibrated in his bones until he was itching to move out. There were too many damn humans too damn close for his taste. Business was good, and the dance floor was filled. Brothers prowled through the crowd, making their choices. Taking what they needed. Until they saw him come back down those damn stairs. Then they converged on him as if he’d come to announce the second coming. So much for not engaging and for taking his aggression outside. “Is it true?” The brother closest to him muttered the words as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe them. “Did you find another soul mate?” That was the question they all wanted the answer to. Any human could be a bond mate. But a soul mate? She was one in a million. Literally. Picking up his pace, he arrowed directly at the club’s exterior door.
