He ran a hand through his hair, that crooked smile appearing. “What if I said I’m allergic to stages?”
“I’d say you karaoke’d at Millie’s last month.”
“What if I said I’m morally opposed to being auctioned off like livestock?”
“I’d say you entered a hot dog eating contest.”
“That was for charity!”
“So is this!”
We stood there, glaring at each other, and something shifted. His smile faded. His eyes dropped to my mouth for just a second—so fast I almost missed it—and then back up.
The air went thick. His scent hit me, leather and woods, and I forgot what I was even arguing about.
“Tessa...” His voice was rougher now.
River appeared at the end of the aisle. “You two need help finding anything, or...?”
Ben practically vaulted over a display of faucets to escape. “Gotta go! Nice talk! I’ll think about it!”
He was out the door before I could blink.
River looked at me with obvious amusement. “So that went well.”
I’m still thinking about the way he said my name. The way his eyes dropped to my mouth.
I breathe in his scent again, here in my car, and the ache between my legs pulses so hard I gasp.
This is bad. This is really bad.
Seven years of suppressants and now I’m soaking wet thinking about Ben Wilson on my way to a business meeting.
What is wrong with me?
Pine Valley appearsthrough the snow. Strip malls and office buildings, the kind of generic development you find on the outskirts of any growing town. This is where the money is—corporate clients, big venues, the events that actually pay my bills. The streets are quieter than usual, the snow keeping people inside.
I pull into the parking lot and turn off the engine.
For a moment I just sit there. Snow falling around the car in a white curtain. My breath fogging the glass. The ache in my body pulsing steady and insistent.
Three alphas. Three scents tangled in my memory. And my body humming with want for all of them.
I press my palm flat against my lower belly. Feel the warmth there, the emptiness, the need I’ve been ignoring for years.
This is what happens when suppressants start to lose their grip. I’ve read about it—pre-heat symptoms, the body slowly waking up after years of being suppressed. It doesn’t mean I’m going into heat. Not yet. But it means my biology is stirring, noticing alphas, responding to scents and touches in ways it hasn’t for seven years.
I remember what heat felt like before the suppressants. Sixteen years old in my fourth foster home, burning up and desperate and completely alone. No pack. No alpha. Just me,locked in my room for three days, riding it out by myself because no one was coming to help.
I went on suppressants the day I turned eighteen and could sign my own medical forms. Swore I’d never be that vulnerable again.
And now my body is waking up.
No. No, no, no. Not now. Not in the middle of the biggest event of my career.
I dig through my purse with shaking hands, pushing past receipts and lip balm and the emergency granola bar I never eat. There. The little orange bottle I keep with me everywhere, just in case.
Suppressants. My safety net. My control.
