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I hold my breath.
I don’t turn around.
Maybe he’ll keep walking.
Maybe he’ll pretend this never happened.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he growls with rage so spiky, I jump.
A whiff of apple cider sneaks into my nose and bubbles into my bloodstream.
My mouth waters.
My knees wobble.
My body doesn’t know what to do.
Do I lick him?
Do I grovel?
I tremble, aware on a cellular level that I’m the one in his territory. I’m the intruder. The enemy.
“I’m sorry.” I turn slowly, opening my palms, dipping my head, and keeping my gaze dropped to the floor.
But speaking means breathing and I catch a face full of the sweetest omega scent I’ve ever tasted.
I’ve smelled hundreds of omegas. Hundreds of scents, no two even close to similar, and I’ve loathed every. Single. One.
If they smelled floral, they were too fake. If they smelled like baked goods, they were too thick and cloying and ugh.
This scent is…
Crisp apple cider with hints of autumn.
It’s like snuggling under a blanket in an apple orchard, gazing up at the stars feeling comfy and cozy and so impossibly safe.
It’s exactly where I want to be.
It’s exactly what I want.
“Why are you upstairs?” his voice shakes. “Why are you here?”
I can’t look at him. My throat muscles clench and unclench. “Craig told me to— I didn’t mean—”
“Get out,” he says roughly.
I lift my head just high enough to see his toes. He wears thick socks where he stands, totally blocking the doorway.
I shuffle to the side, hugging the wall of cabinets. I know I can’t look at him. It’ll break me to see the hate in his eyes. To see the man who smells like that staring at me like I’m scum.
Shuffle-stepping, I make my way around the kitchen, looking only at the tiles.
He steps back when I come too close. “I don’t want to see you again.”
“Okay,” I yelp, slithering away, needing to be anywhere but here.
“Wait.”
