Fuck.
I'm hard.
Already. Just from the lingering ghost of him in an empty room. Just from breathing air that he breathed. Just from the memory of his face inches from mine, those dark eyes blown wide, that scent pouring off him like he was made of it.
I shift in the chair. The friction does nothing to help. Makes it worse, actually. The pressure against my zipper is almost painful. My cock strains against the denim, thick and insistent and completely, absolutely out of my control.
This is Max.Max.Margot's son. My stepbrother. The kid I told was nothing. The charity case. The outsider. The problem.
The omega.
God, the word alone makes something in my chest crack open. Something primal and ancient and hungry. Something I've read about, heard about, fantasized about in the dark when no one was watching. Every alpha wants this. Every alpha dreams about finding the scent that rewires their brain, that makes the world narrow to a single point. The one.
I didn't think it would be him.
Hell, no one thinks it would be anyone in their family.
My hand moves without permission. Drops from the arm of the chair to my thigh. Slides inward. I feel myself through the jeans—hard, throbbing, leaking already. The denim is damp at the tip.
No.
I'm not doing this. Not here. Not because ofhim.
I stand up. Too fast. The blood rushes and my vision spots. I brace one hand against the bookshelf. Breathe.
Except breathing means smelling him.
His notebook is still on the side table. The pen beside it. He left them when he scrambled up, when he fell and I caught him and the world tilted sideways.
I should leave them alone.
I pick up the notebook.
The leather is warm. Soft from years of handling, the edges rounded, the spine cracked. It smells like him. Concentrated. Intense. Like he's been holding it against his chest, carrying it everywhere, pouring himself into these pages.
I don't open it. I'm an asshole, but I'm not that kind of asshole.
But I hold it. Press my thumb against the cover. Feel the texture.
And I bring it to my face.
Fuck.
The scent hits me like a wall. Vanilla honey smoke sugarwant. My cock pulses. My vision goes hazy at the edges. Every nerve ending in my body lights up simultaneously.
I need to leave. Now. Before I do something I can't take back. Before someone finds me in this library smelling Max Carter's notebook like a fucking animal.
I set the notebook down. Set it down carefully. Precisely. Exactly where it was.
My hands are shaking.
I make it to my room in under a minute. Down the stairs, across the hall, past the shared lounge—empty, thank God—and into my space. I close the door. Lock it. The click of the deadbolt sounds like a gunshot.
My room is mine. Navy walls. Dark furniture. The bed I've slept in since I was sixteen, upgraded twice but always in the same spot. Trophies from school gathering dust on the shelf. The framed photo of Mom I keep on my nightstand that no one talks about.
This is my space. My territory. Safe.
Except it's not. Because the scent is still in my lungs. Still on my hands from where I touched his arm. Still burned into my memory like a brand.
