Straitjackets?
Dozens of them, piled and layered beneath me like some twisted nest. The instruments of restraint repurposed into bedding.
Madness turned into comfort.
Oh God.
His scent hit me next.
Pine.
Smoke.
Musk.
It cut through the sterile white light like a blade, sinking into my skin, my lungs, my blood.
It calmed me.
My thrashing slowed.
My racing heart went steady.
Lusty heat rose within my body.
No. Not now. Fight it.
But my body wasn't listening. My body remembered his scent from the corridor, from his cell, from the speakers that carried his laughter as I fell unconscious. My body had been marinating in him for hours, maybe longer, and now it was responding with single-minded intensity.
Slick pooled between my thighs. My nipples hardened against the cool air. A deep, clenching emptiness pulsed in my core, demanding to be filled.
This isn't me. This is biology. This is—
"You're awake." Rook’s voice was close.
Too close.
I turned my head, and there he was.
Rook sat on the edge of the bed, watching me with those dark green eyes. He'd changed clothes, and now only wore white silk pajama pants.
He was so close, I could see the impeccable detail in the playing cards that wound down his forearms.
His long curly hair was wild, and he was looking at me like I was the answer to a question he'd spent his whole life asking.
My voice came out hoarse. "Let me go."
The padded walls swallowed the sound, made it feel small and intimate.
"No."
"Rook—"
"You're in heat, Beloved." He gave me a sad smile. "Your first real heat. Your body is going to need things it's never needed before. Beloved, I'm not letting you go through that alone."
Beloved.
The word shouldn't have made my stomach flip. It shouldn't have sent a pulse of warmth through my chest.
