I roll over. Face the wall. Press my forehead against the cold concrete and squeeze my eyes shut.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I'm sorry, I can't—I didn't mean to—"
"Don't apologize." His voice is strained. Tight. Like he's holding something between his teeth. "Don't worry about me. Pretend I'm not here."
I try.
I tryso hard.
But the heat is eating me alive. The warmth in my belly has become a furnace—radiating outward, turning my blood to something molten. Slick is gathering between my thighs. I can feel it soaking through the scrubs. The shame of it burns hotter than the heat itself.
My hand drifts again. Through the fabric this time—palm pressed flat against my cock, rubbing slow circles because I can't not. My hips move against my hand. My breath comes in short, ragged gasps against the wall.
"This is wrong," I hear myself say. The words fall out—heat-drunk, half-delirious. Thinking out loud. "We're stepbrothers. We're practically family. This is—I shouldn't be—not with you in the room—"
"Max—"
"I'm wrong." My hand presses harder. My hips grind forward. Tears leak from the corners of my eyes—shame and need and the impossibility of separating them. "I'm all wrong. My body is wrong. Wanting this is wrong. Wanting you is—"
"The thoughts I'm having about you right now are certainly not familial."
I go still. My hand stops. My breath catches.
"You're not wrong, Max. Nothing about you is wrong. Not your body. Not what it wants. Not who it wants."
"You don't know what you're saying. The scent is—it's making you—"
"I wanted you before the scent. I wanted you in the library. In your room. At the dinner table where I said the worst things I've ever said to anyone." A pause. The sound of him swallowing. "The scent isn't making me want you. It's making it impossible to pretend I don't."
Silence. The fluorescent hum. My pulse pounding in my ears.
"Max." Closer now. I hear him stand. Hear his unsteady footsteps crossing the three feet between us. He doesn't touch me. Just stands beside the bed. "Do you want me to—"
"No."
The word comes out fast. Reflexive. The word of a person who's been trained to refuse help because accepting it means owing something.
Bane doesn't leave. I hear him swallow. Hard. I can feel him standing there—can feel the warmth of his body, can smell him through the haze of my own scent. Amber and sandalwood and something underneath that's darker, richer,alpha.
"Max." His voice is barely a thread. "I'm here. You can—" He stops. Starts again. "Use me. If you need to. Or—I mean—" A breath. Shaky. Bane Graves, who always has the right words, fumbling. "I can take care of you. If you'll let me."
I roll over. Look up at him.
He's standing over the bed with his zip-tied hands in front of him. His jaw is clenched so hard the muscle jumps. His pupils are blown—almost no hazel left, just dark, bottomless want held in check by sheer willpower. And he's hard—visibly, achingly hard, straining against his pants—and making no effort to hide it but no move to act on it either.
He's offering. Not taking. Not demanding.
Offering.
"I–”
What do I do? What the fuck do I do?
I want him so bad it hurts.
I need him. I think I need him…
“Please," I say. The word breaks in my mouth. "Please, Bane. I need—"
