We stand there in the dimness with his body pressed against mine and his hand covering my mouth and the threat just beyond that door.
His scent surrounds me yet again, heady, intoxicating. Stronger now that he’s this near. His body heat radiates through layers of clothing. The careful way he’s holding me—protective, controlled, trying to keep us both alive—it makes my wolf want to rumble with satisfaction.
More footsteps. Returning to the door.
Another voice. Different from before. “Thermal shows heat signature. Could be occupants.”
My whole body goes tense. They have thermal imaging. They know someone’s inside.
Jericho’s hand tightens slightly on my hip. Warning or reassurance, I’m not sure.
“Could be residual,” the first voice says. “Room was occupied until this morning. Bed would still register.”
“Check it anyway.”
The door handle turns hard. Someone trying to force it.
The lock holds.
“We don’t have authorization for forced entry in a civilian location,” the first voice says. “Local PD would respond. Creates complications.”
“Mark it. We’ll come back with the manager if the primary search comes up empty.”
Footsteps retreat.
We stay frozen. His hand still on my mouth. His body still shielding mine. Both of us barely breathing while we wait to be certain they’re gone.
The footsteps fade down the hallway. I hear the stairwell door open and close.
Silence. Real silence this time. No voices. No footsteps. Just the sound of our breathing.
Jericho’s hand stays on my mouth.
I don’t move.
Neither does he. His palm is warm against my lips. His fingers firm along my jaw. The touch is intimate in ways it shouldn’t be. His thumb strokes once along my pulse point—slow, deliberate, not restraint anymore.
Something else entirely.
My breathing changes against his palm. Faster. Shallower. He feels it. Has to feel it. Has to know what his proximity is doing to me.
His other hand on my hip tightens fractionally. Not painful. Just possessive. Like he’s fighting the urge to pull me closer.
I turn my head slightly. His hand falls away from my mouth, but doesn’t go far, just slides down to rest against my throat, where my pulse races wildly.
We’re face-to-face now. Too near. His eyes are visible even in the dimness—pale gray catching what little light filters through the curtains.
Neither of us speaks.
His hand on my throat. My back against the wall. Our bodies aligned. The heat between us building to something that feels inevitable.
Outside: silence. The Syndicate has moved on. We’re safe.
Inside: something more dangerous than any kill team.
His thumb traces my pulse. Slow. Deliberate. His gaze drops to my mouth. And I can only stare at him while my wolf howls and my body burns, and every rational thought dissolves.
We’re going to—
