“I feel it too, Lucy.” His eyes are glimmering and soft. Honey brown and honest, shiny orbs that reflect nothing but care and concern. “That was…” His mouth opens and closes as he searches for the right word. “Intense. It was…”
He’s trying to be eloquent and failing, and I love that for him. He looks vacant and stunned, which is exactly how I feel.
“Was it more intense than other heats you’ve been involved in?” I snuffle hopefully.
He looks at me for a while, studying my eyes. Eventually, he nods slowly. “Yeah. It was…unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I-I haven’t… I didn’t know it could be like that.”
My stupid heart races at hearing him say it. It beats jubilantly and so quickly that it loosens my tongue. “It was so strong, Branson. It rolled over me, and now everything is sore. My chest hurts. It feels like there’s a big, bruised ring that’s been branded into my sternum, and my neck is so sore. Not just my throat. My neck too.”
Beside me, Branson stiffens. His Adam’s apple bobs and sticks in his throat. His eyes become fixed and glint with something hard to place as they bore into me. He turns his head sharply from me as if to stop me from reading what’s written in them.
Huh?
Something is off. This isn’t him at all. Branson is the mostalphaalpha I’ve ever met. Confidence and self-assurance ooze from his pores, yet now he looks…sheepish?
No. That isn’t it.
It’s not sheepish, but it’s something like it.
He keeps his head turned away from me, seemingly engrossed in the view of the forest. He laces his fingers together and releases them, rubbing his palms on his jeans. He stops that and begins fidgeting with his thumbnail instead.
The entire time, something remorseful tightens his jaw.
Guilt.
Branson looks guilty.
What the hell?
The brand on my chest pangs deeply, and so does the sore place on my neck. It’s an odd ache. Deep and painful, yet not altogether unpleasant. The type of pain that could feel good if it received the right kind of pressure.
I move my head, testing my range of motion, and it hurts deeper.
I raise my hand absently and run my fingers down my jugular vein, seeking relief. I get close to the base of my throat and flinch hard. “Ow!”
Wait.
What the fuck was that?
I grab my neck again, this time with both hands, and frantically run my fingers over my scent gland.
It’s raised.
Sweet Jesus, it’s raised. It’s hot, bumpy, and sensitive to touch. More sensitive than usual.
Much, much more sensitive.
I fly off the bench and launch myself at the front door as panic takes hold. I yank the door open violently and throw myself through it.
I stand in front of the entry table and gape at my reflection.
In the mirror above the table, I see my eyes, wide and wild, as my hand slowly travels up to my mouth to stiflea scream. There, in plain sight, is a mark on my neck. An angry, red mark. An irregular circle of shiny, raised skin.
Pure, unfiltered shock torpedoes up my legs and down my arms. My limbs stiffen, fingers stick straight and splay open as my eyes stretch in horror.
I spin in a broad circle, arms flailing as I attempt to wave off an invisible attack. “A mark?” I hiss and squawk. “A motherfucking mark?”
Branson appears in the doorway, casting a long shadow into the room, but wisely giving me a wide berth. His eyes are downcast and his mouth is a thin line. He looks pained and ashamed. As he bloody well should. “You.” I jab a furious finger at him. “You bit me.”
