The scent rolls over me in a wave.
Warm honey. Cinnamon. Clove.
It’s everywhere. Thick. Saturated. It fills my nose, coats my tongue, presses against my skin like humidity.
My body reacts before my brain catches up.
Heat coils low and sharp. My breath stutters. I grip the doorframe, knuckles whitening, and force myself to inhale through my mouth.
Get a grip.
“Caroline,” I call, voice rougher than I want.
Thistle bolts past me, claws skidding on the hardwood as he disappears into the living room.
I follow, senses overloaded, every step deliberate. The house feels charged, like the air itself is vibrating. My head throbs harder, a pressure behind my eyes that makes the edges of my vision blur.
And then I see her.
She’s on the floor near the sofa, curled on her side, skin flushed deep pink, hair plastered damp against her forehead. A throw blanket is bunched uselessly near her knees, her white T-shirt plastered to her skin. I can clearly see the outline of her pink nipples through the fabric.
Her breathing is uneven, catching in soft, broken sounds that make my chest ache.
One hand is on her throat. The other is tucked between her legs.
My stomach drops.
“Holy fuck,” I whisper, and turn away immediately, heart slamming against my ribs. “I’m sorry,” I say, facing the wall, eyes fixed on a crooked picture frame. “I didn’t mean to?—”
“Damon.”
Hearing her say my name makes me freeze.
“Help me,” she whispers.
Everything inside me goes taut.
I stay turned away, hands lifted like I’m surrendering. My skin feels too tight, like my uniform is suddenly several sizes too small. I force myself to breathe, slow and controlled, even as my instincts scream.
“I’m here,” I tell her. “Can you stand?”
“No. I’ve tried.” Her voice is all scratchy.
I shrug out of my jacket and toss it behind me without looking. “Cover yourself if you can. I’m going to turn around in a second.”
There’s a soft movement. A shaky breath.
I count to three and turn.
Her eyes are half-lidded, glassy with need and confusion. Her lips are parted, swollen. She looks wrecked, like she has been fighting her own body and losing. Thistle sits beside her head, pressed close, tail wrapped around his paws, yellow-green eyes flicking between us.
I drop to one knee, keeping space between us. “Can you hear me?”
She nods, a small, jerky movement.
“Good,” I say. “I need you to stay with me. I’m going to ask you a question.”
Her gaze drifts, unfocused. She swallows hard. “I didn’t… I took my suppressants. I always do.”
