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He looks around again and scoffs. “We’re going to have to change that.”
My heart skips a beat. “No, we like sleeping here.”
I guess, to a certain extent, it’s true. I’ve never slept anywhere else, after all. Gran said when I was a baby, I slept in the bottom bureau drawer.
“No, you don’t,” he insists in a silky whisper.
My heart starts pumping wildly in my chest. He’s never thought about where we’ve slept, and now he wants to swoop in and change things?
Who does he think he is?
My ghost wiggles beneath my skin, urging me to lash out. I push it down as deep as I can, but there’s an edge to my voice when I speak next.
“Where did you think we slept?”
His eyes darken. “I don’t know. I never thought about it.”
I inch away from him as much as I can in the narrow bed. “Nobody ever thinks about the betas, do they? For all you know, I slept in a hole in the ground.” I can feel my heartbeat in my throat. My ghost has completely taken over my mouth, and I can’t stop myself from speaking. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave us alone.”
I choke on my own breath. Did I just threaten him? What does that even mean?
He tilts his head and considers me, watching me for several seconds as my ghost shrinks, my heart slowing to a stop as the blood rushes from my head and settles in my core.
The heat I’ve felt all day long is nothing compared to how I feel now: engulfed in flames, burning alive.
His eyes stay trained on my face as he rests two fingers on my neck, the rough pads pressing into my skin. I hold my breath as he moves them down a long tendon and settles in the hollow of my throat.
“Where’s this anger coming from, Hetty?” he asks, his voice rough, my pulse going wild under his fingertips.
I swallow and feel his fingers press into the movement. “I don’t know. I’m so sorry.”
He frowns and shakes his head softly. “I don’t think you are.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I’m incapable of speech when he looks at me like that—his eyes—hooded and lazy—his full lips relaxed.
Slowly and methodically, his fingers spread around my throat. I’m frozen under the pressure as his face moves toward me in an almost trancelike state.
Inhaling deeply a few inches from my neck, he murmurs, “You smell different … good.”
I can only squeak faintly as a shiver runs up and down my body when he lowers his mouth to my neck, kissing me lightly. In a straight line, he lays his lips on my skin slowly and softly.
I’m not breathing when he pulls his face away from me, looking at me like he’s never seen me.
“And you taste good, too,” he mumbles.
Before I can attempt to say anything, there’s a loud throat clearing from the door.
It’s Gran holding a steaming mug. In quick succession, he yanks his hand from my neck and glances over his shoulder. Like a fog on a hot summer morning, the heat in the room disintegrates.
“Hetty needs rest.” Gran’s voice is blank, and her eyes are fiery as they settle on Noah. “And her tea.”
He nods shortly before rising to his feet, not looking at me again as he strides out the door.
Hollowly, I watch the empty door frame as Gran approaches me, wordlessly thrusting the hot mug toward me, the hot, flowery scent hitting me in the face.
Dianthus.
Again.
