Page 32 of Star Claimed Omega
By the third, he was moaning while licking sugar from his fingers.
Next to the dome was a small tin of honey-date semolina bars, chewy and dense, with crushed pistachios on top.
He devoured one seated on the terrace by the veranda, gazing over the lake, savoring each bite.
By the fourth bar, he was swearing under his breath again, this time with helplessness.
The woman had no idea what she was doing to him.
He stretched his long legs before him, an empty cup by his foot, and the tin of treats nestled beside him like a talisman.
The faux dusk cast the lake in burnished gold and bronze, and the birdsong was light and rhythmic in the distance.
All he could think of was her.
Of how she didn’t flirt.
She scarcely glanced at him or tried to gain his attention, unlike many other women he encountered.
He remembered the grace in her movements even while folding sheets, scrubbing counter-tops, and working on an under-sink pipe.
Her dark brown hair was always twisted into a loose bun; nevertheless, a few stubborn wisps always trailed down her neck.
His mouth tingled, imagining his lips running down her nape.
Then there were her hazel-gold eyes that seldom met his but, when they did, left him a little winded.
When her dimpled smile sparked without warning, it struck him right in the chest.
Her mouth, lush, full, and curved, only made him want to take a sip of her.
Even her body was designed for slow discovery, one he wanted to embark on with a possessive fierceness.
Still, he didn’t dare make a wrong move, for that’d be harassment, and he was the XO with an example to uphold.
He worked with ex-cons, sharpshooters, and saboteurs. His squad dealt in blood, weapons, and violence.
His purpose was to hold the line between stability and chaos, and sometimes that meant crossing it to the dark side.
He was the master of manipulating that same turmoil for the pack’s advantage.
His spectral power could tear apart the throats of his enemies.
Yet he was wary of letting anyone in.
He had a darker reason for his hesitation, one that compelled him to watch Soleil from afar.
Years ago, he learned a harsh lesson, and its scars still wrapped around his soul.
His first love, Naya’s death during the Great Wars, cut him up in a way that left no room for softness afterward.
Since then, any love he had to share had been locked away, and he wore his charm like armor, slick, polished, and untouchable. He built a fortress of smirks and half-truths and lived in it alone.
Until Soleil.
The irony didn’t escape him. Her sun, her freakin’ essence, somehow, was burning through his shadows.
She also didn’t chase him, nor try to impress him.
