“His weakness?”
“You.” Posy raised her glass in a toast. “You’re his weakness, Sara. And it’s almost spring.”
The words sent a shiver down her spine—not fear, but anticipation. Somewhere across the tavern, she could feel Ben’s presence like a magnet, pulling at something deep in her chest.
He was probably hiding in his office, convincing himself that distance was the answer.
Not for long,she thought.
She was done letting him run. Done waiting for him to figure out what she already knew—that they belonged together, that his control could shatter against her and it would be okay because she wasn’t afraid of his intensity.
She was counting on it.
“To spring,” she said, raising her water-logged margarita glass.
“To spring,” the others echoed.
The bead curtain that led to the back of the tavern clicked gently. She didn’t turn to look, but she felt the weight of Ben’s gaze on her like a physical touch.
That’s right,she thought.Keep watching. I’m not going anywhere.
The hunt was on.
CHAPTER 11
The whiskey did nothing to quiet the noise in Ben’s head. He poured another two fingers anyway, watching the amber liquid catch the low light of his office. Outside his office, the Moonlight Tavern sounded the way it always did on Friday nights. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
None of them drowned out Sara’s voice.
She was out there. He’d known the moment she walked in, her scent cutting through the tavern’s usual mix of beer, fried food, and a hundred different Others like a blade through fog. Vanilla and sugar and something underneath that was just her—warm skin and contentment and home.
Home. He was losing his damn mind.
He dropped into his desk chair, the leather creaking in protest. His ears swiveled towards the door without his permission, tracking the distant murmur of female voices. Sara’s laugh drifted through—bright and genuine, the kind of sound that made his chest ache.
She was having a good time. That was fine. That was good.
He took a long swallow of whiskey and tried to believe it.
Three days since the kiss. Three days of avoiding her, of burying himself in inventory and staff schedules and anything that kept his hands busy and his mind occupied. It hadn’t worked. Nothing worked. He played guitar until his fingers bled and still couldn’t stop thinking about the soft gasp she’d made when he pressed her against the fence post.
The way she’d melted into him. The taste of her mouth.
The sound she’d made when he pulled away.
His claws pricked against the whiskey glass. He forced them to retract, one by one, breathing through the surge of possessive heat that threatened to swamp his better judgment.
This is why you walked away, he reminded himself. This is exactly why.
Six years of control. Six years of keeping everyone at arm’s length, of building something steady and quiet out of the chaos he’d left behind. He’d been proud of that discipline. Proud of proving that he wasn’t the same reckless creature who’d burned through women like matches, chasing sensation without ever finding satisfaction.
Then Sara Cartwright had moved in next door with her warm smile and her brownies and her complete inability to be intimidated by his bad mood. And suddenly six years of control felt like tissue paper against a hurricane.
A burst of male laughter from the main room made his ears twitch. He recognized that laugh. Adrian. The werewolf was out there, probably sitting at the same table as Sara, probablyleaning in too close with that charming smile that made Ben want to rip his throat out.
His hand tightened on the glass until he heard it creak.
Easy. You don’t own her. You don’t even have the right to want to.
