I wander into his room and shift the stapler on his desk an inch to the left, then I remove a single book from his shelf and lay it sideways on top of the row, and finally I climb into his massive king size bed and roll around like a lunatic.
He thinks I smell like a kennel—then let him sleep in it. Arrogant bastard.
With a smirk, I let myself out of the penthouse apartment.
The crisp morning air fills my lungs as I hit the street.
I keep my pace brisk, ignoring the tiny pang of regret about those thousand-thread-count sheets and pancakes… definitely the pancakes and not Percy Porkwell.
I take a deep breath.
Worst case, I’ve got intel for my anti-Porkwell campaigns. Best case, there’s hope for Wolfstone and whatever strange, impossible thing is happening between Percy and me.
I smile to myself, imagining Hamilton’s face when he finds my scent in his pristine space. Serves him right.
Maybe I haven’t lost all my marbles after all.
5
Hamilton
Ruby’s scent hits me the moment I open my bedroom door.
Earthy. Wild. Unmistakable.
My body reacts before my brain can catch up—cock twitching, heart pounding, nostrils flaring.
That fucking she-wolf has been in my room. And I know exactly who let her in.
“Percy,” I growl, slamming the door behind me.
I knew Percy had fucked her. I could smell her all over him last night. We share females often, which makes it easier; they sign an NDA and stay for a day or two while we let loose out of the public eye.
But this. This is different.
Percy always had a bleeding heart for every sob story in a hundred-mile radius. But letting that forest-dwelling menace into our home—into my personal space?
This crosses every line.
It took me every ounce of control yesterday not to punch his brains out.
What the fuck was he thinking?
I inhale again, deeper this time, tracking the invisible trail of her presence.
She touched my desk. Pawed through my papers, probably.
Lingered by my bookshelf, the nosy bitch.
But the strongest concentration hovers around my bed, where her scent clings to my now rumpled sheets.
She rolled in my fucking bed.
The mental image of Ruby writhing on my mattress, those long legs, twisting in my sheets, that infuriating smirk playing at her lips as she deliberately rubs her scent into my most private space.
My nails dig into my palms, leaving half-moon indentations in the flesh.
“Goddamn it,” I mutter, adjusting my suddenly too-tight slacks.
