“You know what this means, right?” he asks, his concern seeping through the question.
I roll my eyes with the goal of easing the tension that is now clogging my nest. “Ren, I might be new to being an omega myself, but I promise I’m very familiar with omega biology. It’s literally my whole job. So don’t even think about mansplaining what a heat is to me.”
It doesn’t work. At all.
He isn’t in a teasing mood, and apparently, neither is his wolf. The low, warning growl that vibrates through him makes that very evident.
Tough crowd.
The small, playful smile I’d been offering him barely has time to fade before his chin dips and he bites the crease of my thigh. Not hard enough to break skin. Just enough to make me yelp in surprise.
The sting blooms into heat that pools low in my belly almost instantly.
“Rennick!” I cry, fingers digging tighter into his hair as he licks over the spot he just marked. If I keep this up, the poor guy might go bald.
“Let me bite you, sweet one,” he half pleads, the desperation bleeding into his own growing aroused. “Let me make you mine.”
My chest flutters painfully with butterflies and something else, but I shake my head. “Not yet.”
Even dazed, still floating in the aftermath of the orgasm he’s just wrung out of me, the decision I made last night still stands.
He didn’t like it much then, either.
After Rennick finally learned the full truth about my approaching heat, we’d fallen into a disagreement.
He’d gone rigid the moment he understood what was at stake, his eyes darkening with that fierce, protective glare I’m becoming all too familiar with. And, if I’m honest, totally obsessed with. Yeah, I don’t know what that’s about, and I’m still trying to work out which base instinct ignites that particular brand of appreciation, but what I do know is my wolf’s a big fan.
Last night, he’d been prepared to bite me right then. Ready to mark me as his, to anchor me to him so I can’t slip away and leave him behind.
To him, the path forward is an obvious one. The rejected mate syndrome will only ease once our bond is healed, and I need his mark to survive the near eight years’ worth of suppressed heats nipping at my heels. To him, it’s simply a‘two birds, one bite’kind of situation.
But I had still refused, stubbornly digging my feet in. Not because I still doubt him,or us, but because I meant it when I said we need time. And knowing how little of it we have, makes every moment count. I refuse to waste a breath of it.
To say he accepted this would be…generous. He merely postponed the battle, jaw clenched, sheathing the argument like a blade he plans to draw again the second I give him a sliver of an opening.
I draw in a fortifying breath, steeling myself, and shoring up my mental walls for the verbal sparring match that might be headed my way if he decides now is the right moment to pick up that sword again.
Instead, his lips press softly to the same crease of my thigh.
Goosebumps erupt across my skin.
And just like that, I’m no longer braced for battle at all.
He shocks me again by asking a question that has nothing to do with bonding, or marks, or the fight I was anticipating.
“Did you like waking up like that?” His voice is low, almost casual, mouth close enough that I feel the words as much as hear them. “With me between your thighs? Devouring you, Noa?”
His words alone have my breath hitching, but it’s the way his lips continue to travel across my skin, leaving a trail of wet, open-mouth kisses across my pelvic bone, that has a new wave of aching need igniting in my veins.
“Yes.”
I don’t deny it. Pretending to not enjoy what he did—to not crave more—seems like a pointless endeavor. Even when I can’t quite articulate or understandwhyI enjoyed the way he blurred the lines of consent by waking me up with his tongue buried in me.
I decide I don’t need to interrogate pleasure. Not everything that feels good needs to be justified. Not between us. I just need to listen to myself and trust the answer.
But I also know that I can fall blindly into this because it’s him. Rennick. My mate. And I can finally admit that I trust him to not hurt me. Body or heart.
He doesn’t react the way I expect. I brace for him to lunge for me—for him to surge forward, hunger snapping tight now that I’ve admitted it. Instead, he turns his head and traces the same slow, unhurried path along my other thigh, like he’s savoring the answer instead of devouring it.
