I dress in clean black boxer briefs and loose linen pants, leaving my chest bare. The suite is warm enough, and I'm still overheated from the shower. From the omega's scent. From the lingering irritation of Whiskey's provocations.
I settle against the headboard of my bed with the book I've been reading, but the words blur before my eyes. I realize I've been staring at the same paragraph for five minutes without processing a single sentence. With a frustrated exhale, I close the book and press my fingertips against my temples. The headache that's been threatening all evening pulses behind my eyes.
It's just biology, I tell myself. Simple hormonal response to a compatible omega in heat. Nothing more.
Except it is, and pretending otherwise is an exercise in self-deception I have neither the patience nor the inclination to indulge in tonight.
A sudden knock at my door makes me jolt hard enough to wrench my fucking neck.
"Shit," I snarl.
And who the hell could that be?
I inhale deeply. The trace of cinnamon confirms what I already suspect.
Whiskey.
For a moment, I consider ignoring him. Pretending to be asleep. It would be the sensible option. Whatever he wants at—I glance at the clock—three forty-eight in the morningcan't possiblybe important enough to warrant conversation when we're both keyed up from the omega's pheromones.
But the knock comes again, louder this time. Insistent.
"I know you're awake, pretty boy," Whiskey's voice comes through the door, low enough not to carry through the house but loud enough that I can hear the edge in it. "Open up."
With a controlled exhale that's more of a growl, I set the book aside and slide off the bed. I hesitate with my hand on the knob, mentally preparing for whatever nonsense Whiskey is about to unleash, before opening the door just enough to see him.
He looks... unraveled. His hair is damp—he must have showered too—but sticking up in places like he's been running his hands through it repeatedly. His pupils are dilated, the honey-brown of his irises reduced to a thin ring. He's shirtless, wearing only low-slung gray sweatpants that hang off his hips. The solid thickness of his torso and shoulders nearly fills my doorway.
"What?" I ask, keeping my tone neutral despite the sudden dryness in my throat.
Whiskey's eyes drag down my bare chest before snapping back up to my face. "You gonna invite me in, or are we having this conversation in the hallway?"
"That depends on what conversation we're having." I don't move from the doorway. "If it's about the omega, I think we've exhausted that topic for tonight."
His jaw tightens. "It's not about the omega."
I raise a skeptical eyebrow but step back, allowing him to enter. As he brushes past me, his scent intensifies. Arousal. Not surprising, given what's happening upstairs and theotherscent saturating the house, but it still sends an unwelcome heat curling low in my stomach.
What the fuck is my problem?
I close the door and turn to find him standing in the center of my room, looking out of place among my minimalist furnishings. His gaze sweeps over the space—the perfectly made bed now slightly rumpled from where I was sitting, the rows of books organized by subject and author, the lack of personal effects beyond a single framed photo on the dresser.
I feel judged.
Judged by a barbarian, of all things.
And it's pissing me off.
"So," I prompt when he doesn't immediately speak. "What's so important it couldn't wait until morning?"
Whiskey shifts his weight, uncharacteristically hesitant. "I want to clear the air."
"About?"
"About what happened in the shower room. In the tunnels."
The memory flashes vivid and unwelcome. His body pressing mine against the cold tile wall, his solid thigh between my legs, the heat of his breath against my ear. I force my expression to remain neutral.
"Nothing happened," I say flatly.
