My legs feel unsteady as I stumble out of the alcove, the walls of the corridor blurring around me. Every step is a battle against the fog clouding my head, my body still recovering from what he just did to me. My thighs are slick, my lips swollen, my skin burning everywhere Seth touched me.
My human mind is screaming at me to think—think, damn it—but my wolf is howling, drunk on his scent, on his taste, on the way he filled me with just his fingers. We’re at war, the two halves of myself pulling in opposite directions.
I try to breathe, to focus, but it’s useless. The mate bond is thrumming, electric under my skin, and it feels like Seth cracked open a dam I didn’t even know existed. And now, everything is rushing out, drowning me in a need I can’t control.
By the time I reach my quarters, my hands are shaking so hard I can barely open the door. I stumble inside, desperate to collapse in the solitude of my room, to find some way to claw back control—
And I freeze.
Peonies. Dozens of them. Their delicate, blush petals spill from vases and scatter across every surface. The air is thick with their scent, sweet and soft, wrapping around me until my chest tightens. On the table near my bed sits a box from my favorite bakery, ribbon tied neatly, cakes and sugared pastries visible through the top, arranged likean offering.
For a few minutes, I’m stunned enough to be forced out of the haze. My wolf goes quiet, confusion pushing back against the lust burning in my veins. My breath hitches as I take in the sight, my mind spinning.
Did Zane do all this?
But even as the thought forms, doubt coils sharp and uneasy in my stomach.
Then, the door opens behind me.
I don’t need to turn around to know who it is. His scent hits me first—rich, dark, intoxicating. Seth. My pulse stutters, heat flooding me all over again.
“Do you like it?” His voice is low, a rasp of gravel and heat that slides down my spine like a caress.
My hands clutch the edge of the table. The sweet aroma of the peonies is everywhere, mixing with his scent, overwhelming and heady. It wraps around me until I can’t tell where the flowers end and he begins.
“Did you…do this?” The question comes out unsteady, almost childlike.
“Yes.” His answer is immediate, unflinching.
I swallow hard, eyes blinking at the vases of flowers, the pastries gleaming under their bakery wrap. Turning to face him, I ask, “Why?”
Seth moves then. Slowly. Intentionally. The silence between us feels like a held breath. My heart hammers as he closes the distance, each step deliberate, predatory but restrained.
By the time he’s in front of me, my backside is almost against the desk. He lifts his hands to my shoulders—not roughly but carefully—his thumbs brushing my collarbone before sliding lower.
“I heard you like peonies,” he murmurs, voice dark velvet. “And those pastries from the capital.” His fingers find the hem of my shirt, toying with it, lifting the fabric up an inch at a time as his knuckles skim the bare skin of my stomach. “I wanted to make you happy.”
The heat of his touch ignites every nerve in me. My wolf preens at his words, arching, greedy, while my human mind reels, trying tounderstand this man who just pinned me in a corridor and now has filled my room with flowers.
“You—” My voice breaks. “You wanted to make me happy?”
“Yes.” His eyes never leave mine. “I want your approval.”
That sentence lands in me like a stone in deep water. My lips draw apart, but for a heartbeat, nothing comes out.
“Why?” It’s a whisper, but the question is everything—fear, confusion, want—all rolled into one sound.
Seth’s fingers slide higher, bringing the shirt up to just under my breasts. He stops there, his hands warm against my ribs. His gaze holds mine, unblinking, a quiet intensity in his green eyes that makes my breath catch.
“Because,” he says finally, voice raw and steady, “I belong to you now.”
My wolf surges at the confession, triumphant, while my human self reels, completely stunned. My skin feels too hot, my heart too loud, my body swaying between resistance and surrender.
“You belong”—my throat grows tight—“to me?”
His thumbs stroke small circles on my sides, grounding me, even as his eyes burn with that intent. “Yes.”
For a moment, there is only the heat of his hands and the weight of his words. Everything else falls away.
