Page 15 of Taken By the Pack

Rowan’s head snaps up, his steel-gray eyes locking on mine. For a split second, something flickers in them—heat, maybe—but he looks away just as quickly, stabbing at his own plate.

“This is amazing,” I say, pushing through the awkwardness. “Seriously.”

He grunts again. That seems to be his default response.

I cut another piece of fish, savoring the burst of flavor. “I’m not much of a cook,” I admit, trying to keep the conversation alive.

“Why not?”

“No one to teach me,” I say simply, shrugging. My chest tightens for a second, but I shove the feeling down and keep eating.

I expect him to ask something—who, why—but he doesn’t. He just keeps eating, his fork scraping lightly against the plate.

Fine. I can take a hint. I focus on the food, letting the quiet settle between us. We both drink our beers, the bottles clinking faintly when we set them down.

When we’re done, I gather the plates. “I can rinse these?—”

“I’ve got it.” He’s already standing, taking the dishes from my hands. His fingers brush mine, and the contact is brief, but it’s enough to make my stomach flutter. I step back, letting him take over.

“You should take the bed,” he says, not looking at me.

“What? No. I don’t want to put you out.”

He doesn’t argue, doesn’t even respond. He just grabs a set of sheets from the hall closet and walks past me, heading for the stairs. I follow him up, my stocking feet silent on the wooden steps.

The bedroom is small, like the rest of the lighthouse, but clean. A simple bed, neatly made, takes up most of the space. There’s a window overlooking the stormy sea, and the walls are painted a muted gray.

“Here.” Rowan hands me the sheets, his gaze flicking to mine for the briefest moment before darting away. “Goodnight.”

“Thanks,” I say softly, clutching the linens as he turns and disappears down the stairs. His footsteps echo, and then it’s quiet again.

I set the sheets on the bed and take a deep breath, letting the room settle around me. His scent lingers everywhere—salt, woodsmoke, and that elusive musk. It wraps around me, soothing in a way I can’t explain.

I ignore the clean sheets and slide straight under the covers, burrowing deep into the mattress.

His scent wraps around me, grounding and heady—and it sinks into my skin like a promise.

Guilt flickers for a second as thunder growls outside, but in here, cocooned in his bed, surrounded by the soft press of Alpha comfort, my body finally lets go.

Muscles unwind. Breath slows. I feel safe.

Sleep drags me under, and the last thing I know is the scent of him sinking into my bones.

* * *

I wake up,and it hits me again: that unbearable heat spreading through me like I’m on fire.

I squeeze my legs together, curling up in the sheets. It’s useless. It’s coming wether I want it to or not.

My body aches for relief, but my pride keeps me from doing anything reckless. Like going downstairs and asking him for… what?

“Fuck,” I whimper into the pillow, wiping the sheen of sweat from my forehead.

And then I hear it. The creak of a stair. My head snaps up, eyes glued to the doorway. He’s there. Rowan. Shirtless.

My throat goes dry as my gaze runs down his chest. Broad, solid muscle. His skin is tanned, dusted with dark hair.

My breath catches when my eyes follow the trail that starts at his navel, disappearing beneath the waistband of low-slung sweatpants. There’s a deep V carved into his hips, leading...

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