Page 6 of Taken By the Pack

Maybe she has something stronger to give me.

“Okay, Grace. You’ve got this,” I reassure myself, pulling my chestnut hair into a messy bun.

The moment I step outside, the rain hits me like a slap. It’s cold and relentless, soaking me to the bone in seconds.

My dress clings to every curve, the thin fabric plastered against my skin. “For fuck’s sake,” I hiss.

The rain doesn’t stop. If anything, it gets heavier as I run to my car, the little red Mini Cooper that’s been my pride and joy since I bought it used.

I slide in, water dripping everywhere, and crank the engine. It sputters to life, the wipers doing their best to keep up with the deluge.

I take a shaky breath, trying to ignore the way my thighs are clenched, the heat between them making it hard to think.

Every brush of fabric feels like sandpaper and silk at the same time, and my clit—God, it’s sensitive. Too sensitive.

“Fuck,” I whisper, gripping the wheel tighter as I turn onto the coastal road. The pharmacist is just a few minutes away. I can make it.

But the next wave hits me like a freight train. My hands shake, and I have to pull over, chest heaving. It’s like my whole body’s on fire, every nerve ending lit up and screaming.

My hips shift involuntarily, chasing friction, and I bite down hard on my lip to keep from moaning.

“This isn’t happening,” I whisper, but it is. It’s happening, and it’s getting worse.

I shove the car back into gear, but the engine sputters. Once. Twice. Then it dies completely.

“No. No, no, no!” I slam my hands on the wheel, but it doesn’t help. The fuel gauge mocks me with its glowing red light. I’m out of gas.

Rain pounds against the windows as I glance around. I’m on the road past the lighthouse—the one that curves toward the far side of town.

I should’ve taken the main road through the center, but I didn’t want to end up stuck in a line of cars trying to beat the storm home.

And now I’m stuck here.

It’s too far to walk to the pharmacy or head back to my shop. Not like this. Not when I’m…

I don’t even finish the thought. My brain’s too scrambled, caught between panic and the relentless pull of my heat.

My skin’s damp with sweat, even in the cold, and every movement I make feels like pushing through molasses.

The lighthouse. Thorne Beacon.

I’ve never been there, but I know someone lives there. A man. He’s supposed to be a recluse, spending most of his time at sea. Maybe he’s not even home. But it’s my only shot.

I grab my bag and step out into the storm. The rain is unrelenting, soaking me again in seconds. My sandals slip on the muddy road, and I nearly go down twice before catching myself.

Each step is harder than the last. My muscles feel like jelly, and the heat—God, the heat—is unbearable.

It’s like every inch of me is hyperaware of the slightest touch, from the scrape of wet fabric against my skin to the way my thighs brush together.

By the time I reach the path leading to the lighthouse, I’m drenched and shivering, though the heat inside me burns hotter than ever. The structure looms ahead, a stark silhouette against the stormy sky.

“Just make it to the door,” I tell myself, teeth chattering. “You can do this.”

I stumble up the stone steps, each step feeling like I’m running a mile. My fist connects hard with the heavy wooden door, but the sound barely carries over the howling wind.

“Hello?” My voice cracks, but I don’t care. “Is anyone here?”

Nothing.

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