“What the fuck,” I breathe.
Damon’s grip on my arm tightens. His pupils are blown wide, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping. He’s smelling it too. Every Alpha within a mile is smelling it right now.
“Silas,” Damon says. The name comes out like a curse.
I’m already out of the car, Thistle bundled in my arms. The rain has slowed to a drizzle, but I barely feel it. The scent is pulling me toward that door like a hook in my chest. I take the porch steps two at a time, and Damon is right behind me.
The door is unlocked.
I push it open and stop dead.
Caroline is on the couch. Silas is beneath her, his back against the cushions, his hands gripping her hips. She’s naked from the waist down, her shirt rucked up around her ribs, and she’s riding him. Her head is thrown back, her spine arched, her skin flushed and glistening with sweat. The wet fabric of her shirt clings to her breasts, her nipples visible through the damp cotton.
It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen.
My brain short-circuits. Every thought, every plan, every carefully constructed argument I’ve been building for days—gone. There’s only Caroline. Only the sight of her lost in pleasure, her body moving with a rhythm that’s primal. Only thescent of her filling the room, mixing with the clean, dark spice of Silas’s cologne.
Then she opens her eyes and sees us.
“Thistle?” Her voice is wrecked, barely recognizable. Her gaze drops to the blanket in my arms, and her whole face transforms. The pleasure, the haze—it all gives way to something pure and bright. “Oh my god. You found him. You found my baby.”
She starts to move—to rise off Silas—but the motion makes her gasp, her body jerking as the shift pulls at something inside her. Silas lets out a strangled groan, his hands tightening on her hips.
“Sweetheart, slow down,” Silas says, his words tight. “You can’t just—fuck?—”
I watch, transfixed, as she stills. The angle lets me see where they’re joined, the swollen base of Silas’s cock stretching her entrance. She can’t move. They’re locked together.
My own cock throbs in response, painfully hard, straining against my zipper.
I turn my head slightly and catch Damon out of the corner of my eye. He’s standing in the doorway, his hand pressed down against the front of his pants, his face a mask of barely contained need. His eyes are locked on Caroline, dark and hungry, and there’s a flush creeping up his neck that I’ve never seen on him before.
He clears his throat. “I’ll excuse myself.”
“It just happened,” Silas says.
Caroline looks between the three of us—me holding Thistle, Damon in the doorway, Silas still inside her—and something crosses her face. It’s not shame or panic. Something that looks almost like determination.
“Don’t leave,” she says.
I blink. “What?”
“Any of you.” Her eyes meet mine, then move to Damon. “I don’t want any of you to leave.”
The room goes so quiet I can hear the rain on the roof. Thistle shifts in my arms, letting out a small purr.
“Caroline,” I start. “You’re in heat. You’re not thinking clearly.”
“I’m thinking clearer than I have in months.” Her chin lifts, defiant even now, even bare and flushed and knotted to another man. “I’ve spent years pretending. Pretending I was bonded. Pretending I didn’t want things I wasn’t supposed to want. I’m done pretending.”
I look at her—really look at her. The fever-bright eyes. The swollen lips. The determination underneath all of it. I know this woman. I’ve loved this woman since I was a teenager. And I know when she’s made up her mind.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
She nods once. Firm.
I walk over to the couch. Thistle is still purring in the blanket, and I set him down on the armchair, making sure he’s settled before turning back to her. I lean down and press my lips to her forehead, breathing her in. Honey and cinnamon and sex and home.
My hand slides down, my fingers tracing the curve of her breast through the damp fabric. I find her nipple and drag my thumb over it, and she whimpers, the sound shooting straight to my groin.
