And between my legs...
Slick.
I was producing slick. Not a lot. Not the flood that came with a full heat, the embarrassing gush of wetness that had soaked through my jeans the first and only time I'd ever experienced it. But enough. Enough to dampen my underwear. Enough to make my inner thighs slip against each other when I walked. Enough to release the faintest whisper of my true scent into the air.
Burnt sugar. Ripe summer peaches. And something electric, crackling, like the air before a thunderstorm. The scent of an unbonded Omega on the edge of heat. The scent I'd spent six years and thousands of dollars trying to suppress.
"No," I growled, kicking off my blankets—then immediately pulling them back, because Ineededthem, needed the weight and the warmth and the cocoon of softness around me. My hands moved without permission, tucking the fabric tighter,building the walls higher. "No, no,no. This isn't happening. I won'tletthis happen."
I'd worked so hard. Sacrificed so much. Left behind everything and everyone I'd ever known just to escape this fate—the fate of being an Omega in a world that saw my designation as a commodity, a prize, athingto be owned.
I would not go back.
I wouldnot.
Even as I made the silent vow, my hands continued their traitorous work. Adjusting the pillows. Smoothing the blankets. Arranging everythingjust so, in patterns that made no logical sense but satisfied something deep and primal in my hindbrain.
Building walls. Building protection. Building a nest.
I curled into its center, surrounded by softness, and tried to pretend I was still in control.
I wasn't.
I hadn't been in control since the moment I answered that phone.
The dreams came for me like they always did.
They started soft, almost gentle—a warmth spreading through my limbs, a sense of safety I hadn't felt in years. I was floating in darkness, cradled by something I couldn't see, rocked like a child in loving arms.
Then the hands appeared.
Large, warm, andeverywhere, sliding over my skin with proprietary ease. Callused palms cupping my breasts. Long fingers tangling in my hair, tilting my head back to expose my throat. Breath hot against my pulse point, lips brushing the sensitive skin where my scent gland throbbed with need.
And the scents. God, thescents.
Honey and sunshine and fresh-cut grass—deceptively sweet, deceptively soft, hiding something dangerous underneath.
Pine and woodsmoke and bitter winter cold—sharp and harsh and utterly unforgiving.
Cedar and old books and the electric crackle of ozone—calm and controlled and patient as death.
Dark chocolate and whiskey and something spiced—playful and warm and vicious when provoked.
Four scents I'd tried desperately to forget. Four faces that haunted me every goddamn night no matter how many suppressants I took, no matter how far I ran, no matter how hard I tried to convince myself I'd never known them at all.
Mason. The golden boy. The Prime. A smile like sunshine, eyes like honey, and hands gentle even when they held me down. In the dream, he pressed his forehead to mine, his breath mingling with my own.
"There's our girl,"he murmured, and his voice was exactly as I remembered—warm,fond, and absolutely certain of his ownership."Missed you, Red. Missed you so fucking much."
Caleb. The enforcer. Ice-cold and brutal, except when he looked at me. Then something cracked in his frozen facade, something hungry and desperate bleeding through. In the dream, his teeth scraped against my throat, not quite biting, not yet.
"You ran,"he growled, and even in sleep, I shivered at the promise of violence in his tone."You ran and you hid and you made us hunt you for three years. Do you have any idea what I'm going to do to you?"
Ethan. The strategist. Quiet where his twin was loud, patient where Caleb was impulsive, always three steps ahead of everyone else. In the dream, his fingers traced my cheekbone like he was memorizing me, cataloging me, filing me away for future reference.
"Did you really think you could escape?"he asked, almost gently."Did you really think we'd let you go?"
Leo. The wildcard. Grinning even when he was furious, laughing even when he was lethal. In the dream, he nipped at my earlobe, his chuckle dark and delighted.
