She turned and walked away, her heart pounding against her ribs. She didn’t look back. She didn’t have to. She could feel the weight of his gaze on her until she was safely inside her own cottage, her back pressed against the door, her lungs burning for air.
Step one complete.
CHAPTER 13
The brownies sat on Ben’s kitchen counter like a declaration of war. He’d been staring at them for twenty minutes—the perfectly cut squares, the slight shine of the chocolate surface, the faint crack patterns that indicated exactly the right ratio of fudgy to cakey. Sara had perfected the recipe over the past weeks, though she probably didn’t realize he’d noticed the subtle improvements each time.
He noticed everything about her. That was the problem.
He leaned against the counter, his claws tapping an agitated rhythm against the granite. Outside, the night had gone fully dark, and he could see the warm glow of Sara’s kitchen window across the yard. She was probably making dinner. Probably humming to herself while she cooked, the way she always did when she thought no one was watching.
I haven’t changed my mind.
Her words echoed through his skull, refusing to quiet no matter how hard he tried to drown them out. She’d stood on his porch,eyes bright with that stubborn certainty she wore like armor, and made it clear she wanted to be with him.
During the Spring Festival.
During mating season.
When every instinct he possessed would be screaming at him to claim her, mark her, bury himself so deep inside her that neither of them would remember where one ended and the other began.
His hands clenched. His body was already responding to the mere thought of it, heat pooling low in his belly, his shaft lengthening, his fur prickling with awareness. Spring was close now—close enough that he could feel it thrumming under his skin like a second heartbeat.
He stared at the brownies again, then reached for one. The chocolate was still warm, melting on his tongue, rich and bittersweet and so intenselyherthat something in his chest twisted.
Fuck.
He ate another. Then another.
This had to stop. He was losing control, and control was the one thing he’d managed to salvage from the wreckage of his old life. But every time he saw her, every time she looked at him with those kind, determined eyes, he felt the foundation of his self-imposed exile cracking.
He left the brownies on the counter and retreated to his living room, grabbing his guitar without thinking. He didn’t try to play any songs, just sat there, his fingers tracing the familiar frets, the worn wood a comfort against his palms. He thoughtabout the women from his past—the faces, the names, the brief, anonymous encounters. None of them had made him feel this…
He put the guitar down again, drawn back to the window again, staring at her house from his dark living room.
Not because you’re overwhelmed by instinct. But because you want to be there.
The laugh that escaped him was rough, almost bitter.Want.As if want was a strong enough word for what he felt when he looked at Sara. Want was what you felt for a cold beer after a long shift. Want was the mild craving for your favorite meal.
What he felt for Sara was closer to necessity. To air. To the bone-deep certainty that if he didn’t touch her soon, something vital in him would simply… stop working.
But that was exactly what terrified him.
Six years. Six years of discipline, of control, of proving to himself that he wasn’t the same reckless bastard who’d burned through women like they were disposable. He’d built something here—a business, a reputation, a life that didn’t revolve around the endless chaos of desire.
And then Sara had moved in next door with her brownies and her smile and her maddening refusal to be intimidated by him.
His reflection stared back at him from the dark glass—tall ears, sharp features, the permanent furrow between his brows that everyone in town had learned to interpret as “don’t bother me.” He looked exactly like what he was: a grumpy rabbit Other who’d spent half a decade convincing himself that solitude was the same as peace.
It wasn’t.
The realization hit him like a punch to the chest. He’d known it for weeks now—had known it since the first time Sara smiled at him like he was worth smiling at—but he’d been too stubborn to admit it.
He was lonely. He was tired. And he wanted, more than anything, to spend time with the woman who saw past all his defenses and liked what she found there anyway.
He turned away from the window, his decision crystallizing with sudden, startling clarity. He would do it. He would spend time with Sara, go to the Festival with her, prove to both of them that this wasn’t just instinct driving him mad. He could control himself—he’d been controlling himself for six years. What was a few more weeks?
And if he couldn’t…
