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She sat there a moment, chest heaving, a dazed little smile on her lips. Then she kicked the lace off her ankles and peeled the patch from her throat before sinking into the water.

I leaned closer to the screen like it would make a difference. It didn’t. I could see every inch of her, hear every breath, and I still couldn’t smell her. One wall between us, and the one thing my Alpha wanted most was the one thing the cameras couldn’t give me. The scarf she’d lost in October hung over the back of my chair. It had never smelled like anything but vanilla. I dragged it through the mess on my abs and wrapped my fist in it until it was coated. Mine now. When she was in my bed, it’d be one of the first things I wrapped around her throat.

I watched my little lamb relax. I wanted to be the one washing her hair. The one who took care of her. I wanted to dirty her, make a mess of her, and then be the one to clean her up.

She was mine.

Soon, she’d know it too.

Chapter 3

Klaus

Twenty steps. That was all that stood between my door and hers. I’d counted them more times than I could remember, but never with the mask on. There were ten doors on this floor, and nine of them were mine. I owned the building. No one else was allowed here.

The hallway was dead quiet. Somewhere down the hall, a radiator ticked like a clock. The bag on my shoulder was heavier than it needed to be. I’d packed it a week ago and kept repacking it every night since, adding things, swapping them, telling myself I was being paranoid. I wasn’t going to be caught without something she needed.

I pulled my phone from my pocket and checked the feed one last time. She was curled on her side, hair splayed across the pillow, one hand cupping her cheek, the other beneath her breast. Her chest rose and fell, slow and even.

Asleep.

I swung the bag around to my chest, unzipped it, and slid her key into the lock. I’d had it copied the week she moved in, the same week I’d stood in her empty living room and memorized every inch of it. Back then, the apartment smelled like fresh paint and cardboard. It hadn’t been hers yet.

The lock gave with a soft click, and I eased the door open just wide enough to slip through.

Her scent hit me the second I crossed the threshold.

Not hidden behind a patch or trapped behind speakers. Real. Warm and sweet, warm honey and dark cherry, and my knees buckled. I caught myself on the wall and bit back the growl before it could fill the apartment and wake her. Months of watching, and I’d never once been able to breathe her in. Now she was everywhere. Soaked into the couch cushions, the walls, the air.

Mine.

She’d already been mine. But this meant the stars had chosen us.

I’d felt it in that fitting room, heard it in her purr on the sidewalk, but this was different. Every instinct I had locked onto her at once.

I dragged her in through the mask until my lungs ached, and that’s when I caught it.

Underneath the honey and cherry, something sweeter.

Her heat was coming.

Not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But soon. That was why the patch had been irritating her. Why she’d been scratching at her throat and drinking that tea like it could save her. A week of reading her tells, and I’d been right.

I closed the door behind me. The little tree in the middle of her living room blinked red, then green, then red again. The floorboard by the couch creaked under my boot. On the screens, it never made a sound. Her coat hung crooked on its hook, and I straightened it, rubbing the sleeve between my fingers. She deserved cashmere. Something softer than this scratchy wool. Her shoes lay where she’d kicked them. I crouched down and lined them up.

You’d think I was breaking in.

But I was just coming home.

The kitchen first. The tea tin was nearly empty, so I filled it to the brim with the same blend from an Omega apothecary in the city. Everything bagels in the breadbox. A new can of whipped cream in the fridge door, right where her hand reached without looking. The cabinet above the sink had hung crooked since October, drifting open an inch every time she closed it. I unzipped the front pocket and pulled out the screwdriver. Two turns and it closed and stayed that way. I wondered if she’d notice it tomorrow.

In the bathroom, I replaced the washer in the dripping faucet I’d listened to every night for a few weeks. Her drugstore body wash was half empty. I topped it off with the good stuff, same scent, so she’d never know the difference. Only her skin would.

On my way out, I dropped the thermostat from seventy-two to sixty-seven. The temperature she slept like the dead at. Her cheap patches were peeling at the edges and tearing her skin raw. I tipped them into my bag and slid the medical-grade kind into her old box. Same dose. Same strength. I’d checked three times. I wasn’t going to touch what kept her safe.

I was halfway back through the kitchen when I saw it. A white mug sat on a nest of crumpled wrapping paper by the coffee maker. World’s Prettiest Coworker. A card was tucked inside, folded in half.

For my favorite girl. Can’t wait to see you over the holidays.—R