I don’t know what that means. I just start pacing. The length of my sofa, to the kitchen doorway, and back again. My skin is on fire, a prickling and insistent heat that has nothing to do with the temperature in the room. Every nerve ending feels exposed, raw.
Silas doesn’t pace. He walks to the sofa and sits, placing his hands on his knees. He watches me, his gaze calm andanalytical. It should be unnerving, but the sheer presence of him in my space is doing other things to me. His scent, a complex mix of clean rain, sandalwood, and something uniquely him, something dark and spiced, fills the air. It clings to the furniture, seeps into the fabric of my home, marking it.
My mouth waters. A deep and pulling ache starts in my glands, a frantic pulse in my throat that begs for a bite, forhisclaim. The throbbing between my legs intensifies, making my knees feel weak.
I want him.
I want him to fuck me.
I want to bend over my sofa and have him drive his cock into me until I can’t remember my own name.
What is wrong with me?
Griffin is out there in this storm, looking for my familiar. Damon is with him.
And all I can think about is the Alpha sitting on my sofa, the way his shirt stretches across his shoulders, the dark stubble on his jaw. I shake my head, as if I can physically dislodge the images, the raw scenarios playing out in my mind.
Thistle must be terrified, cold, and alone. And here I’m, a prisoner of my own biology, fantasizing about a man I barely know.
“Can I get you anything?” I ask, my own voice too high, too thin. “Water? Tea?”
“No, thank you,” he says, his tone even. “Do you have any wolfsbane?”
I stop pacing and stare at him. “Wolfsbane? No. Why would I have that? It’s poisonous.”
He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. The movement shifts his scent, sending a new, more potent wave of it directly to me.
“It’s a powerful neutralizer. In small, controlled doses, it can help dampen the effects of a heat. Take the edge off.” He looks up at me, his dark eyes seeming to see right through my flimsy composure. “I can’t tell what you’re thinking, Caroline, but I can guess. Your scent keeps intensifying.”
A hot wave of shame washes over me, so intense it is almost dizzying. He knows. He can smell my lust, my depraved thoughts, as clearly as if I’d shouted them. “Sorry,” I whisper, dropping my gaze to the floor.
In a fluid motion, he’s standing. “Don’t apologize.” He crosses the space between us in two long strides. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. It’s a natural response.”
I risk a look up at him. He is so close. I can see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the way his dark hair falls across his forehead. “Do I smell bad?”
“On the contrary. Your scent is delectable, sweetheart.”
“Really?”
He nods.
“What do I smell like?” The question is out before I can stop it, breathless and bold.
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. He doesn’t answer. Instead, he reaches out and takes my hand. His fingers are cool against my burning skin. He gives a gentle tug, and I stumble forward, my body colliding with his. He’s a wall of muscle and heat as he brushes his nose down my jawline in a feather-light and devastating touch. I can feel the rough scrape of his stubble and the warmth of his breath against my ear.
“Your heart is beating so fast,” he murmurs, his words a vibration against my skin. My nipples pebble, rubbing against the lace of my bra, each movement sending a jolt of electricity straight to my core. I lean closer, tilting my head to give him better access, a silent offering.
“Fuck, Omega,” he breathes.
“You smell so good, too,” I manage to say, the admission torn from me.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, and this time the smile is real, a knowing, confident curve of his mouth. “I know.”
I look into his eyes, then trace the slope of his nose with my gaze, memorizing the full shape of his lips. I want to taste them.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks, his tone a low rumble that I feel in my bones.
“That day. At the apothecary. I wanted you.”
