Page 37 of Puck Your Charity

I freeze. My hand stops moving. My heart drops into my stomach.

Twin headlights blind me through the frost-coated glass. A black Jeep idles directly behind my sedan, blocking me in. The rumble of a powerful engine vibrates through the asphalt.

Panic slices through the drug-like haze of my arousal.

I scramble into an upright position. I yank my hand out of my pants and scramble to zip my jeans. My chest heaves with terrified gasps.

The driver's side door of the Jeep swings open.

A towering silhouette steps onto the pavement. The glow of the streetlamp catches his auburn hair and the broad span of his shoulders. He wears a dark henley and boots.

Finn.

He stands in the freezing air, his eyes locked onto my beat-up car. His chest expands as he takes a deep breath.

He found me.

Chapter 12

The cold March wind bites my face, but it carries a scent that stops the blood in my veins.

Crushed cinnamon and distressed apple pie. But underneath the distress lies a distinct musk. The unmistakable scent of female arousal floods the parking lot. She touched herself in that freezing backseat. The damp, sweet aroma of a fresh climax leaks through the vents of her car.

A deep, vibrating rumble of protective yearning builds in my throat. My cock hardens inside my jeans, responding to the undeniable call of our Omega. But the urge to comfort overrides the lust. My instincts scream to wrap her in blankets, pull her into my arms, and give her the safety she must crave.

I take a deliberate breath of the cold air. I center my mind. She needs gentleness.

My eyes drop to the grill of my Jeep. It idles right behind her bumper. I boxed her in. I refuse to trap her.

I climb back into the driver's seat. Throwing the gearshift into reverse, I back up and guide my vehicle into a parking space three spots away. I leave her a clear, unobstructed path to the exit. I want her to know she holds the power to drive away.

Killing the engine, the silence of the empty lot presses against the windows.

I stay in the quiet cabin for a moment. The pack spiraled into a dark, chaotic mess back at the mansion before I left. Malcolm paced the floorboards, his cedar scent sour with panic. Victor stared at the wall, drowning in a toxic sea of guilt. Lawrence gripped his phone with white knuckles, waiting for a miracle.

We pushed her to this breaking point. Our mistakes drove her onto the freezing streets.

Every attempt we made to bring her home ended in a failure. We overwhelmed her with desperate apologies. We tried to smooth-talk her into a corner and bark orders like dictators.

I take a deep breath. The crisp ozone of my scentfills the Jeep. I need to keep my head straight. I refuse to show up and act like a sad puppy again. I refuse to act like a tyrant. She needs a steady presence. She needs an immovable shield to block the wind.

I look at the paper bag and the cardboard coffee cups resting on my passenger seat. I stopped at a late-night diner on the way here. The smell of roasted beans and hot grease mixes fill the air. I grab the food and the drinks. Pushing my door open, I step back out onto the asphalt.

The private investigator sent a long report along with her location coordinates an hour ago. He watched her flee her sister's house in a blind panic. He watched her try to access a locked storage facility. She bounced from one dead end toanother. She exhausted every option until she hit rock bottom in this lot.

The thought of that Beta brother-in-law doing something to scare her makes my jaw clench. But tonight, Olive remains my top priority. The wind cuts through my jacket. The temperature hovers near freezing. Sleeping in a car without a heater guarantees hypothermia.

I walk past the empty parking spots. The crunch of my boots on the asphalt sounds loud in the quiet night. I reach the side of her vehicle. Frost coats the edges of the glass. The thin metal of the car offers no protection against the elements. I brace myself and prepare to face her anger.

I stop next to the driver's side door. The tinted window hides the interior, but her scent bleeds through the vents. The smell of her arousal hits my lungs. It tastes like a desperate plea for friction. My teeth ache with the need to bite her neck.

I swallow the urge down. I raise my free hand and rap my knuckles against the cold glass. Two quiet taps.

A frantic shuffling noise comes from the backseat. She scrambles over the center console. Her silhouette appears behind the frosted glass.

The window lowers a couple of inches.

Olive glares at me through the narrow gap. She looks wrecked. Dark circles bruise the skin under her brown eyes. Her cheeks burn with a harsh, feverish flush. She wears a thick winter coat over a gray sweater, but she shivers with uncontrollable tremors.