Page 13 of Desperate Omega

I’d heard that Markus had joined a pack several years ago, but based on the way he’s talking, it sounds like he’s on his own. I’m curious about that, but I decide not to ask him right now. Instead, I just watch in silence as the alpha does his thing. He takes out a waterskin and hands it to me.

“Drink,” he says. “You must be thirsty.”

He’s right. I sweated out a lot of water back there in that burning barn. Then I sweated even more during our run. And that’s not to mention all the shameful wetness that’s been seeping from between my legs this whole time. At this point, it’s a wonder I have any fluid left in my body at all.

I tip the waterskin back and gulp down as much as I can before I have to stop to catch my breath.

“Have as much as you need,” Markus tells me. “There’s plenty more.”

He takes out another waterskin for himself, but instead of drinking it, he pours it over his head and starts to rinse away the dried paste from his skin and hair.

“My pack leader taught me how to make this stuff,” he explains. “It’s made of mud, pine needles, and acorns, among other things. Does a pretty good job of masking one’s scent.”

“Your pack leader?” I ask. “So you’re in a pack now?”

“I was. Not anymore.”

“What happened?”

He just shakes his head and starts pouring water over his shoulders and chest, rinsing away more of the paste.

“That’s a long story.”

I’m tempted to tell him I have time to listen, but it’s obvious he doesn’t want to talk about it. Besides, the sight of Markus bathing himself in the moonlight is distracting enough to make me forget all the questions I have for him. The last time I saw him, he was just a scrawny little pup, the runt of his litter. Not anymore.

Sometime during the past nine years, Markus hit a growth spurt. A big one.

As the water sluices down his body, washing away the dried paste from his skin, I’m finally able to get a good look at his bulging muscles. The ones on his chest look like two big plates of armor, and his abdominals look like two stacks of bricks running down his stomach. I have an urge to go over there and trace their outlines with my fingers, or maybe even my tongue. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to keep myself under control.

But the sight of Markus’s hard, glistening body isn’t even the biggest problem I’m facing at the moment. It’s the way he smells. With each bit of paste that gets removed from his skin, his alpha scent grows stronger in the air, until the entire mausoleum seems to be filled with it, an invisible cloud of raw masculinity.

My mouth waters at that scent. My blood races, and I can feel it throbbing at the tips of my breasts, and down between my legs too.

I want him. I want my friend. I want to climb him like a tree and rub my aching need all over his body. I want to make myself come all over his muscles. And then all over his face. And then…

And then…

And then it hits me.

“You’ve been following me,” I whisper.

Markus looks at me, but he doesn’t say anything. His entire body is clean now. Clean and glistening in the moonlight. Source, he looks good—but I remind myself I don’t care about such things.

“Earlier tonight,” I tell him, “I thought I sensed someone watching me from the woods, but I didn’t smell anything. That was you, wasn’t it? I didn’t smell you because you had that stuff on your body.”

“Yes.”

“Why were you following me?”

“I was concerned for your safety, Syra. I wished to protect you.”

That idea makes my blood heat with anger. I don’t need protection. I can take care of my own damned self.

Then I realize Markus was right. I did need protecting. If he hadn’t stepped in when he did, I would be dead meat. That realization makes me even angrier.

“Have you followed me before?” I ask.

“Yes.”