“Back the hell up,now.”
I step back instantly as my mind reels at the sudden transformation. Her eyes flashed yellow, but she smells human. I think. She’s certainly not a wolf. And if she were a shifter, she wouldknowI’m her mate. It feels impossible trying to process what’s happening when my wolf is howling at me. What the hell is going on?
“Ryan, you need to leave,” she orders, her tone firm. “This is completely inappropriate.”
I raise my hands in defense as my mind spirals out of control. She wants me. I can smell how much she wants me. But she’s resisting the bond and acting like she doesn’t even know what we are to one another. But she didn’t reject me either. She didn’t try to deny what we both know she wanted.
Maya stands on shaky legs before pushing her shoulders back and striding toward the door. She opens it and turns to face me. “You should leave.”
I nod sharply before walking out. My wolf howls at me, trying to force me back. Urging me to claim her now. He doesn’t give a fuck about consent or the fact that the human part of Maya has told me to leave. Despite her words, her body tells him she wants us. The battle between my human part, who respects my mate, and the animal part of me, who just wants to tear her clothes off, is giving me a headache, but I trudge forward.
Away from my mate and my sanity.
For now,I tell my wolf. I need to figure out what the hell is going on here. I’m not giving up. Not even close.
Chapter Seven
Maya
I close the door, lean back against the cool wood, and kick off my pumps. Or fuck-me heels, as Ryan called them. What the hell was that?
Breathe in for four seconds.
Hold for four seconds.
Out for four seconds.
Hold for four seconds.
I push my toes into the carpet underfoot and notice the cool timber of the wood behind me as I settle my weight against it. I can do this.I am in control.
No, I’m not.
Because every inhale floods me with that damn earthy citrus scent that made me want to taste him. And my underwear is distractingly wet. He is my patient. My devastatingly handsome patient, who offered to lick my pussy in my damn office. My patient, who seemed to be completely aware of what he was doing when he loomed over me. The very definition of tall, dark, and handsome with his copper skin, brown eyes and hair, and defined muscular form.
Shit, why am I even thinking about his body?
He is my patient. And a walking red flag at that. Who the hell professes love after four video calls? Someone experiencing erotic transference that has absolutely no filter, apparently. But a voice inside me kept insisting he wasn’t wrong. That he was mine. That we were made for each other.
This is insane. Good Lord, I am losing my damn mind.
Go after him. Find him. Bite him.
No, this cannot be happening. I block out the voice that tells me everything I can’t listen to. The one that has flooded me with intrusive thoughts for years. Has pushed me toward violence and acts I would never consider.
I wince when a sharp rapping at my door alerts me to how out of control I was allowing my head to become. I can’t afford to let my mind run rampant like that. I slide my feet back into my shoes and open the door. Charlotte, the receptionist that I and the other therapists in the building share, rushes in.
“Sorry, I know this is super unprofessional, but where the hell did that man come from and where do I get one?”
I raise an eyebrow, and she throws her hands in the air. “Don’t pretend he isn’t the finest thing you have ever seen in your life! I know you are the picture of serenity, but even you have to admit, if he weren’t your patient, you’d climb him like a tree!”
“He is my patient,” I reply, sharper than I intended. Charlotte is a sweetheart. At twenty-six, she is three years younger than I am and has made it her mission to get me out of my shell. If only she knew where I spent my Friday and Saturday nights.
“I know, but he’s notmypatient,” she says with a waggle of her eyebrows. “Would it be a fireable offense if I asked him out?”
She clasps her hands together in prayer and gazes up at me. She looks at me with so much hope in her eyes that I almost feel bad for shooting her down. Almost.
“It absolutely would be,” I say, my voice firm and brooking no arguments. Even though it’s a complete lie because there’s nothing in her contract that prohibits her from dating patients of the therapists who work here.
