doing interviews about our relationship before we figure shit out. Shouldn’t we be working on the annulment?
His bow creases, gaze sharpening. “I don’t want an annulment.”
I blink. “I don’t get it.” “Get what?”
“The joke.”
“I’m not joking.”
I pause, staring at him with wide eyes. “Why the fuck not?”My voice comes out high and squeaky. I’m not sure if I’m terrified or excited at the prospect of staying married to him.
“My first marriage isn’t supposed to end in divorce,” he says, like it should be obvious.
“If it doesn’t end in divorce, how do you expect to get a second marriage?” I’m no longer able to follow his ridiculous line of thought.
He grins, adorable dimples flashing temptingly. “Widower sounds much better than divorcé. I need time to plan your tragic death.”
“You’re an idiot,” I mutter. “We should tell them we’regettingtheannulment.ThisisVegas;theyhavea wedding chapel on every corner. I’m sure they have just as many attorneys giving out annulments like candy.”
“I’m serious. I don’t want to be separated from you, Fylgja.”
My patience abruptly snaps. “What if I don’t want to be married to you?”
“Then I would let the annulment happen, but you don’t want to be apart any more than I do. I know you feel the same way I do. You’re just too damn stubborn to listen to your heart instead of that hard head of yours.”
I stand, dropping my plate onto the cart. “I was drunk. You were drunk.”
“A drunk man’s actions are a sober man’s thoughts.” “Yeah. Okay, Yoda,” I scoff.
He rises slowly, like he has all the time in the world. I watch his hands as he sets his plate down. He’s deliberate and careful in his movements as if he’s choosing his next move. My pulse ticks up traitorously.
He looks at me like he wants to devour me, and my mouth goes dry.
I take a step back before I even realize I’m doing it. Then another. The window presses cooland unyielding into my spine, grounding me just enough to remind me that I should stop this. Call him off. Say something sharp. Defensive. Anything.
Instead, I breathe him in.
He doesn’t touch me. Not yet. But he stands there, close enough that I can feel the heat rolling off his body, close enough that every inhale tastes like him. Alpha. Familiar. Inviting.
My omega stirs in anticipation, stretching toward him like it’s been given, waiting for permission I’ve never given.
“Move,” I say, but it comes out thin and unconvincing.
His gaze drops to my mouth and lingers there. The silence stretches thick and heavy; the only sound is the rush of our breaths as we stare into each other’s eyes. I can feel the weight of his gaze in my gut, coiling tighter and tighter.
“I’m not crowding you,” he murmurs huskily.
It’s infuriating because he’s right. There’s still space between us. Barely, but enough that my body feels the absence of his touch like a missing limb.
I swallow hard.
Then his pheromones hit me properly. Dark and heady, curling low in my belly. The last of my resistance fractures, and I lean forward before my brain can catch up, nose brushing his neck. His breath stutters as I scent his gland.
He’s frozen. Probably scared that I’ll snap out of whatever spell I’m under if he moves. For one suspended second, I think of backing up.
Then he exhales, a soft, broken sound, and the restraint in his posture snaps. He closes the distance fully, bracing his handson either side of me on the window. Pinning me without actually touching me. Giving me the illusion of a choice.
My inner omega melts, utterly undone by the care he’s showing.
