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“Oh. Those are our vision boards.” Daria grabs hers, like it’s no big deal, and hands it to Austin. He flips to the first page.With her being so willing to let Austin look, I can’t demand Brady put mine down. That would only draw more of her attention.
With gentle hands, Brady pages through mine, almost like he’s afraid he’ll break the scrapbook. Or am I imagining that? He pauses and studies a certain page. I bite my cheek to keep from craning my neck to see which one caught his attention.
Dylan surges forward, capturing my focus, and pushes magazine after magazine out of the way until he finds the one that has his story on the inside, almost like he knew it was there. But that’s impossible, right? “Whose is this?”
“I brought it for Quinn. We’re trying to figure out what type of pack she wants.”
“Daria!”
She gives me an apologetic look. “Sorry.” She mimes zipping her lips.
“And you think she’d like someone in here?” Dylan opens the magazine to the exact section where his picture is. “Someone like this?” He glances at me, mirth dancing in his gaze. “Aw, Quinn. Do you have a crush on me?”
“You’re obnoxiously full of yourself.” I snatch the magazine from his hands and toss it back onto the table.
“So, Daria,” Dylan begins, fiddling with a strand of my hair. I slap his hand away, but that only makes his smile widen more. “What type of pack does our little Quinn want?”
I give Daria a murderous look. She presses her lips together and ignores the question. Austin sets her book aside, but Brady still holds mine hostage. When he lifts his gaze to meet mine, staring at me for a few tense moments, my stomach flips. I’m dying to know what he’s thinking. His eyes flick to Daria.
“How do you know Quinn?”
Breathing out, Daria explains how we know each other. The conversation is innocent, but the longer he listens and looks at her, the more I hate it.
I feel my upper lip curl as a strange possessiveness fills me from head to toe, but before I can growl or do anything to embarrass myself, Dylan finds the back of my neck with his hand and squeezes. I suck in a quick breath.
The pads of his fingers are electric on my skin, the pressure enough to ground me through the haze of my omega emotions. Daria is still talking, but I can’t make out what she’s saying over the blood rushing through my ears. Can’t focus on anything other than how Dylan ripped control of my body away from me with one touch. His grip eases, pressing gently into my skin now, and I take a steadying breath, realizing the urge to gouge Daria’s eyes out has faded.
Fuck.
How did Dylan know I needed that?
I glance at him as his fingers fall away, but he’s staring at Brady, who is doing his best to ignore Dylan. Tucking my hands under my legs, I check in with Austin and find him leaned back in his chair, a tattooed hand covering his mouth as he watches me. Studies me like a puzzle he needs to figure out.
Daria’s phone beeps, and the room falls into awkward silence as she checks her message.
“I should go,” Daria says, glancing up at me. I paste on a smile for her sake. “The guys want me home. Can we rain check our date?”
“Is everything okay?”
She nods. “Yeah, they just said I needed to come home.”
With no explanation? I frown but hold my tongue. I don’t like how torn up she is about their scents, but I especially don’t like them demanding she come home without a good reason, when they know she’s hanging out with me.
“We can reschedule,” I say, instead of asking more questions. She’s already struggling and doesn’t need me adding to her doubt.
“Thanks.” She stands to pack up, and I join her, bending over to grab the magazines.
As I scoop up the last of them, Dylan’s foot brushes against mine. Shit. I’m showing him my whole ass. I bolt up, scowling at him before seeing Daria out. Thank fuck she’s focused on her own issues and hasn’t noticed any of the tension between me and the guys.
I shut her car door and take a few steps back, waving to her as she starts what she calls her “old beater” and drives away. I wait outside until I think it’s safe, until I’m certain the guys have grown tired of sitting in the family room, before turning back toward the house. Dylan stands in the doorway, arms crossed over his impressive chest, those stormy blues set on me.
He was so hard the other morning.
Fuck, you feel good.
My throat tightens, and I hesitate for a moment before forcing my feet forward. Every step is like trudging through mud. My heart hammers against my ribs, but I take a breath, trying to force it into submission, but it doesn’t work. Electricity crackles over my skin the closer I get to him. He watches me the entire way up the stairs, his face unreadable.
He’s so big, there’s no sneaking around him. It would be ultra pathetic to use the back door instead.
