I sit in the quiet, the coffee warming my hands. She’s right, of course. She’s always right. But knowing something and being able to do something about it are two different things. I can’t focus on the reports. I can’t think about the budget. All I can think about is the clock on the wall. The slow, agonizing crawl of the minute hand.
I’m just buying time. Waiting for the sun to rise. Waiting for a decent hour. Waiting for the moment I can walk out of this house, go down to that shop, and see for myself that she’s okay.
The engine is still running, the heater pushing a lukewarm breeze into the cab of the cruiser. I’m parked across the street, two houses down from hers. The windows are dark. The whole street is quiet under the pre-dawn sky.
I tell myself I’m just giving it a minute. A moment to process the nightmare, to get my head on straight before I see her. But it’s a lie. I’ve been sitting here for ten minutes, my hands gripping the steering wheel.
I kill the engine. The sudden silence is loud. I get out, the cold air a shock against my bare skin. I left my jacket in the back seat. I cross the street, my boots crunching on the gravel of the shoulder. I walk up her driveway, the neat flagstone path flanked by dormant flowerbeds, and climb the three steps to her porch and stand in front of the door. When I raise my hand and knock, the sound of my knuckles against the wood is too sharp in the stillness.
I wait. Thirty seconds. A minute. I hear something from inside. A thud. A muffled curse. More thudding, like someone stumbling around in the dark. My muscles tense. I raise my hand to knock again, this time harder, but the sound of a deadbolt turning stops me.
The door swings open.
And there she is.
She’s a mess. Her hair is a tangled halo around her face, escaping a messy bun on top of her head. Her cheeks are flushed, a high, hectic color. She’s wearing an old, faded T-shirt that’sdamp with sweat, clinging to her breasts and torso. The scent hits me first, before I can process anything else.
It’s not her usual cinnamon and honey. It’s the salty scent of exertion, of sweat on her skin. Underneath it, though, is the faint, sweet trace of her Omega heat, a ghost of a scent that should be long gone.
My body reacts before my brain can catch up. A hot punch of lust straight to my groin. My cock immediately goes hard, an aching pressure against the zipper of my jeans. It’s an instinctual response to an Omega in distress, to her scent, to the sight of her. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound.
“Damon?” Her voice is hoarse, her eyes wide and dazed. “What are you doing here?”
“Is this a bad time?” The question is stupid, a formality. I can see it’s a bad time. A terrible time.
“No,” she says, shaking her head a little too quickly. She glances back into the dark house. “No, I was just… running a load of laundry. Come in.”
She steps aside, and I cross the threshold into her house. Inside, the scent of her sweat and something else, something faintly metallic, clings to every surface. The place is neat. Immaculate, even. Books are stacked on the coffee table, a half-finished mug of tea on the coaster. Everything has its place.
It’s the same as the last time I was here, but different. That time, the air had been thick with the scent of her heat, with the tension of what we were about to do. I remember my hands under her shirt, her leg wrapped around my hip. I remember ending up with my cock buried inside her, her cries echoing in the quiet house.
“Can I get you some coffee? Or tea? Or… something?” She’s wringing her hands, a nervous gesture.
“No, I’m okay,” I say. I walk further into the room, trying to put some space between us, to get my body under control. I sit on the edge of the armchair, my posture rigid.
She hovers for a moment before sitting on the opposite end of the sofa, pulling her knees up to her chest. She’s as far away from me as she can get. The movement makes the T-shirt ride up, exposing a long expanse of her thigh. I look away, focusing on a spot on the wall.
“Are you okay?” I ask, the question coming out more bluntly than I intended.
She nods, her chin tucked against her knees. “Yeah. I’m fine.” But then she pushes herself up, a sudden, jerky movement. “You know what, I’m just going to grab some water. Do you want some?”
“I’m good.”
She disappears into the kitchen. I hear the sound of the fridge opening, then the crinkle of a plastic bottle. She comes back, twisting the cap on a bottle of water. Her hands are shaking, and she can’t get a grip. The cap slips, spinning in her palm.
“Let me,” I say, standing up. I cross the room and take the bottle from her. Our fingers brush, and a jolt goes through me, hot and electric. I twist the cap. It comes off with a pop.
She’s shivering, I realize. A fine tremor is running through her body, visible in the way her shoulders are hunched. I hand her the open bottle. Our eyes meet for a second before she looks away, taking the bottle from me. She brings it to her lips and drinks, her throat working. She sips almost half the bottle before lowering it.
“Did something happen?” I ask.
She sets the bottle down on the coffee table, her hand unsteady. “It’s nothing. Just a slight headache. I’ll be okay.”
“Okay.” The word is a concession. I don’t believe her, but I don’t have the right to push. I change the subject, circling back to the reason I’m really here. “We need to talk about what happened the last time.”
Her shoulders tense. “We don’t have to.”
“I do,” I say, my tone firm. “I acted like a jackass. I just wanted to make sure you knew that.”
