She pulls back half an inch, and her eyes search mine.
My hand slides to the back of her neck. Gentle, barely any pressure, just enough to tell her I’m here and I want this.
She kisses me again—longer this time. Still gentle, still sweet, but there’s a sureness to it now. Her fingers curl against my jaw, and her body leans into mine, and the sound she makes, a tiny exhale through her nose, is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.
When she pulls back the second time, her cheeks are flushed, and her eyes are bright. She looks at me like she can’t believe what she just did. She holds my eyes for another second. Then she drops her head back to my chest, curling into me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I pull the blanket from the back of the couch and drape it over both of us. She burrows deeper, her legs tucking up, her body fitting against mine.
“I still think you smell like hot turd,” she adds, her voice already thick with sleep.
My chest shakes with silent laughter. She feels it and makes an annoyed sound, pressing her face harder against me like she can smother the amusement out of my body.
“Stop laughing. I’m being serious.”
I press my lips to the top of her head. Hold them there. Breathe her in—wild berries and warmth and the faintest trace of peach soap.
Her breathing slows. Her grip on my shirt loosens, then tightens, then loosens again as sleep pulls her under. Each exhale a little longer than the last, a little deeper, until she’s gone. Fully asleep. Trusting me enough to let go completely.
I should move her to the bed. She’d be more comfortable there. But I can’t bring myself to shift even an inch. Not when she chose this. Not when she chose me.
My thumb traces slow circles on her shoulder, and my eyes grow heavy. I fight it for a while because watching her sleep feels important. Like if I close my eyes, I might wake up, and she’ll be gone—back to the woods, back to talking to sticks and rocks because no one else is there.
But her warmth is pulling me under. The steady rhythm of her breathing syncs with mine, and my body, this body that hasn’t truly rested in a decade, finally gives in.
23
Mo
Iwake up warm. Sprawled across something solid, my cheek pressed against a heartbeat.
Silas.
We’re still on the couch. His arms are still around me, and we haven’t moved all night.
I ease myself out of his hold, careful not to wake him. He stirs slightly but doesn’t open his eyes. I smile as I look down at him, remembering last night.
Then I catch sight of Darius near the front door. He’s standing very still, his eyes moving between Silas and me.
I wait for the anger, the jealousy, the possessive alpha bullshit. But his expression gives me nothing. He just looks at us for a long moment, then turns away and starts undressing.
His shirt comes off first. Shoulders rolling as he pulls it over his head, the muscles in his back shifting under golden skin.
Look away.
His hands go to his joggers. Thumbs hook into the waistband. He pushes them down, slow, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world and no idea I’m watching.
He has to know I’m watching.
Look. Away.
The joggers hit the floor. He stands there bare, all of him, and my mouth goes so dry I can’t swallow. The V of muscle at his hips cuts sharp lines downward, and I follow them.
I should look away. I know I should look away. But my traitorous eyes are locked on him, drinking in every inch of his sculpted body.
His woodsy, masculine scent is everywhere, and it makes my head swim, and I bite my lip hard enough to taste copper, trying to shut my omega bits down.
I hate him. I hate him because he chained me to a wall and refused to let me shift and called me his property, and right now, in this exact moment, I want to lick every inch of him.