Page 35 of Pack Frenzy
There’s a grunt, then nothing.
I push the door with two fingers. “I’m coming in, don’t flash me your dick or anything?—”
The room is dim and cool. He’s sprawled sideways across the bed, sheet kicked to his waist, one forearm thrown over his face. He looks less like chaos and more like off-duty: mouth soft, hair a wreck, the scruff dark on his jaw. Leather-amber-pepper is strong here and makes my legs feel like they won’t hold me up.
“Food,” I try again, stepping closer. “It’s hot.”
He doesn’t move.
I lean in. “Come on, trouble. Omelets.”
His hand snaps up, fast as a trap. For a man dead asleep thirty seconds ago, he moves like a hitman. Fingers lock around my wrist, a hard yank, and I yelp as inertia does the rest. We tumble; the mattress takes my knees; my other hand lands on muscle and heat. In the next breath, I’m caged under him, both wrists pinned over my head against the pillow, his weight braced above me, scent lighting every stupid Omega wire I pretend I don’t have.
For three seconds, my body doesn’t know if it should fight or surrender.
And thatsurrenderis even in the vocabulary—that some part of me wants to go soft and still under his hands, wants to tip my head back and offer my throat like it’s safe here—terrifies me more than his grip ever could.
Because I know what wanting does. It gets you signed over to a program. It gets you medicated and monitored and told you’re lucky someone’s willing to deal with you at all.
He’s hard against my thigh, and a whimper slips out of me. My body aches for him, wanting release like I’m already addicted with one touch.
“Jess,” he murmurs, and he sounds half asleep as he nuzzles my neck.
My whole body quivers, and my jasmine and vanilla pheromones kick up from ten to a hundred.
He jerks back, eyes snap open. There’s a wild second where we just breathe at each other—his inhale, my exhale—and the room shrinks down to pressure and heat and that low, animal place in my spine that purrsyesat being held like this.
Then the recognition hits his face. “Shit—Jess.” He releases like I burned him, palms up, backing off a few inches without actually leaving. “Reflex. I’m…are you okay?”
I should tell him to get the hell off. That he can’t just— I should shove him and storm out and make some speech about boundaries.
But my body has its own opinion. A sharp jolt of adrenaline punches through me, fast and stupid, gone just as quickly. Not fear. Just surprise… and the lingering heat of his grip, which my traitorous body seems far too interested in.
“You shouldn’t sneak in like that.”
“I did say your name. And knocked. You ignored all the civilized options.”
His mouth curves, guilty and amused. “Guess you merged into my dream.”
“I was trying to save you from cold eggs.”
“And you almost got suplexed. Not ideal hospitality.” He scrubs a hand down his face, then drops his forearm across his eyes again like sunlight is illegal. “Give me thirty seconds to remember how to human.”
“Fine,” I say, because it isn’t not-fine. Because my pulse is still thudding in that very specific way that has nothing to do with panic and everything to do with the fact that I haven’t been touched—really touched, skin to skin, with intent—in three years. Not since I got a Beta to take my virginity because I wanted to be in control of when and how I lost it.
Yet, my body just woke up and remembered it has needs that don’t fit on an intake form.
“But if Eli’s omelets are cold, that’s on you,” I add, because I need to say something that isn’tdo that again. My gaze wants to drag lower—to the obvious evidence that he’s as affected as I am—but I force my eyes to stay on his face.
His grin spreads slow and wickedly. “You came to my room to get me out of bed. That reads like mixed signals, princess.”
I arch a brow from my sprawl on his pillow. “Princess?”
“Term of endearment. Or warning.” He gestures vaguely at the bed. “Up you get before I remember how much I like you pinned.”
The sparkflares. I should absolutely be offended, but I’m not. Fire crawls up my neck, and I have to look away before he sees how much I don’t hate the idea.
I let the spark sit there for one reckless second. Then I reach up, plant a palm on his sternum, and push. He goes easily, like he decided to. I slide out from under him and stand, flipping him an extremely mature double bird.
