I should walk away. Instead, I stay exactly where I am, pulse racing, thighs pressing together, every inch of me longing for them.
So I pick up my phone, open up my messages with Katie, and type.
I’m in. Let’s do it.
I never said when I’d do it, but I’ll work myself up to it.
Then I take my seat back on the couch and pull up the forum again, because if I’m about to voluntarily spend more time in the proximity of three Alphas who might be my scent matches, I’m going to need all the preparation I can get.
The ache in my abdomen pulses deep and insistent, and I press my hand to my stomach, unable to stop thinking that this is going to be a beautiful, terrifying, desire-soaked disaster.
And I’m walking straight into it.
14
JAKOB
I’m going to fucking murder Louis.
Here I am, in the dark, staring at my bedroom ceiling, and my mind is racing through how I’d do it frame by frame. His front door. My fist through his jaw. The crack of cartilage when his nose breaks. The sound he’d make, that weak, gurgling whimper men make when they realize they’ve picked a fight with the wrong Alpha.
My pulse hammers against my throat while my fists are locked at my sides, bunched in the sheets, and fury is bubbling in my chest.
Two a.m. Sleep isn’t happening. I’m wired, torn between the rage and my growing obsession over Claire. The taste of her in that storage room, her moans, her greedily kissing us back. Fuck, my cock aches. The beast is thick, heavy, pressed against my shorts, and every time I close my eyes, I picture her mouth on my dick.
This Omega is going to break me.
I shove out of bed in my shorts and bare feet. The house is silent, and I head straight for the kitchen without stopping. The other two are snoring away. I need a minute to get my head straight before I do something I’ll regret, like heading to Louis’shouse and teaching him what happens when you put your hands on a woman who isn’t yours anymore.
Fridge open. Juice. I crack the cap and drink standing in the dark, the cold cutting through the heat in my chest, and that’s when I hear a clang from outside through my open window. Metal on metal.
I cross over to the window and part the blinds.
Claire’s place, and the lights are blazing. There she is, visible through her half-open curtains, rushing across the kitchen with a baking tray in both hands. Apron covered in flour and hair in a ponytail.
She’s baking, and I’d bet everything I own it’s because of that piece of shit Louis and what he posted online.
I lean against the counter and drink and watch.
She grabs a bowl. Starts mixing—fast, aggressive strokes—flour puffing into the air. She spins to reach a shelf, and the movement gives me a full view from behind. I nearly choke on the juice. Those leggings. Black, tight, painted onto her legs, hugging every curve of her thighs, and her ass is round and firm. I’m gripping the juice bottle so hard the plastic crackles.
Fuck.
She moves again. Pulls something out from the oven, sets it down, wipes her forehead with her wrist. Then she tastes something from a spoon, tilts her head, and decides. Back to mixing, lost in it, and the concentration on her face is intense.
She’s fucking adorable.
I finish the bottle, then toss it in the recycling and take one more look. She’s pulling another tray from the oven, golden, steaming, and her face lights up with that specific satisfaction of a baker who nailed it.
Fuck it.
I march into my room, drop the shorts, and drag on jeans and a crumpled T-shirt from the chair. Shoes. Out the front door, easing it shut so nothing clicks.
The street’s dead, the moon’s high, and I’m crossing to her front door in haste, where I ring the bell.
Footsteps inside. A pause. “Who is it?”
“Jakob.”
