He turns right, then left. Then right again.
I fill my lungs with air and attempt to growl as I close in on him, but it falters and cracks, turning into something that could best be described as a giggle instead.
I have him cornered. There’s no way for him to escape. I reach out to catch him, but the chase hasn’t left him yet, and he’s squirmy. Still, I manage to grab hold of the hem of his pajama top. It slows but doesn’t stop him. He struggles, slipping out of the garment, and starts running again, leaving me clutching a warm piece of clothing with no one inside it.
He heads back the same way he came, but instead of turning left at the end of the passage, he turns right.
My heart rate accelerates, beating almost as fast as his. He’s headed to the most deserted part of the floor. He’s going somewhere he shouldn’t go—down the quietest, darkest hallway that leads to the quietest, darkest rooms in the house.
“Jensen,” I warn, raising a hand to try to stop him.
It’s too late. He’s at the door at the end of the corridor, hand on the wrought iron handle. I open my mouth to speak, but he turns the handle and pushes the door open before I’m able to get another word out.
I enter the room a little more than a second after he does, but by the time I get inside, he’s aware of what he’s done. Of where he is.
He stands, back rigid, in the middle of the room.
I find the switch near the door and turn on the light. A warm glow envelops the room, chasing some of the dark away, butnot all of it. There’s no overhead light here, only discreet wall-recessed fittings designed to be sensual and easy on heat-addled retinas.
Jensen’s eyes are as wide as a pair of eyes can possibly be. “I, I’m sorry. I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t mean to barge in…here.”
He’s found his way to the entrance of the heat chamber. A sacred space in any home, but in a home like this, with the long history my line has enjoyed, it has a strangely eerie atmosphere.
“I…shouldn’t be here,” he says, hunching his shoulders and folding his bare arms over his chest.
I hand him his pajama top, and he quickly shrugs it on.
As he dresses, I cast my eye around the room and see it as I imagine it must look to Jensen. We’re in the entrance to the chamber. A peaceful place that has the somber atmosphere of a place of worship. Though it’s a part of the house I’m well acquainted with, now, for the first time, I see it through the eyes of another. Eyes that aren’t used to such sights. I see it not as the familiar, light place I used to seek solace in to daydream about my mate as a young man. Not as a place that became heavy as the years passed, and not as a space that became too painful for me to be in when hope finally died its painful death.
Instead, I see it for what it is: a tidy, somewhat formal room with high walls painted a rich, sultry navy blue that leans purple. I chose the color hoping it would be soothing to my mate. The rugs on the floor are sumptuous and overlap each other. I personally laid them this way, making sure every inch of the floor was covered. As a teen, I was preoccupied with the idea of ensuring my precious mate would never know the discomfort of cold feet.
I almost laugh at what a romantic fool I was in those days. Almost, but not quite.
“Is this the—” Jensen is jittery, his voice lilting up a little more than usual.
He’s uncomfortable being here, and I don’t want that, so I finish for him. “It’s the entrance to the heat chamber, yes.”
“Oh,” he peeps, looking around the room. His mind is obviously racing, and I can practically see the cogs turning. “W-where’s the entrance then?”
It’s a good question because the room we’re in is clearly furnished as a place meant for passage, not pause. To the unsuspecting eye, it’s a long rectangular space that doesn’t lead anywhere. There’s a gallery of heavy box frames on the wall, a large mirror on the wall near the door, and an oversized wall-hung tapestry on the far side of the room. Aside from the door we entered through, the walls seem impenetrable.
I point to the tapestry, a blue, green, and gold fantastical hunting scene, and say, “It’s hidden behind the tapestry.”
Despite how unnerved he is to find himself here, his eyes narrow and flicker with something that looks like intrigue. “Asecret doorway!Are you kidding me?”
I snort and shake my head. I should have known his mind would go straight to secret doorways because when he’s not reading smut, I often spot him carting books likeThe Secret GardenandJane Eyreto his rooms when he’s finished his work in the library.
In truth, the hidden entrance is not so much a secret doorway as it is an old-fashioned attempt to stifle the sounds of pleasure that typically ring out from a chamber like this. I don’t think I’ll tell him that though. He seems jumpy enough that he’s found himself here, and the last thing I want is to make him feel worse.
I offer him the crook of my arm, so I may escort him back downstairs. He places his hand on my arm, but doesn’t move. Instead, he stands still, looking up at the frames on the wall in front of us.
“Is this…?” He lowers his voice to a whisper and casts a furtive look up in my direction. “Heat jewelry?”
I dip my head toward his and nod conspiratorially.
He blinks and swivels his head to face forward again. His jaw drops slightly. “I, I’ve never seen anything like this. At least not outside of a museum.”
I understand the sentiment. Heat jewelry, whilst the norm for many centuries, has gone out of vogue in recent decades. In the Old Ways, before mating, alphas used to adorn their omegas’ necks in form-fitting chokers that were designed to hide scent glands from view. Omegas would wear them during the first heat they spent with their mates, keeping them on until even the light pressure on the sensitive spot at the base of their necks became so unbearable that the omega would struggle and thrash, eventually breaking the jewelry with their bare hands to expose their throat to their alpha.
