Page 39 of Pack Frenzy
“I’d never touch you like that on purpose,” I say, lower. “Not without your say-so.”
“I know.” No hesitation. No wobble. She steps forward and offers me the hammer back, but doesn’t release it when I take it. Three of her fingers lightly touch my wrist.
Something in my spine unlocks and threatens to give. My Alpha side demands I pin her, cage her, make her understand what she’s playing with. She’s more dangerous with two ounces of pressure than anyone I’ve ever put in the ground.
“You’re bleeding,” she says softly in a way that makes my Alpha sit up and take notice. That’s not pity. That’s concern, yeah, but under it, she wants to take care of me. The way Omegas do when their instincts get loud.
And fuck, the way her scent—jasmine and vanilla under summer storm—tangles with mine, and it doesn’t just pull; it dares.
I blink, looking at where she’s examining me, so I don’t tackle her right here. There’s a cut across my knuckle, small and shallow, bright with fresh red. I must’ve caught it on something while I was fixing the fence.
“It’s nothing,” I say, but she’s already moving closer, already reaching for my hand like she has every right to it.
She lifts my hand to look, stepping closer to do it. Her hip brushes my knee, and she goes still.
Her breath held like she’s waiting to see if I’ll move, if I’ll grab, if I’ll?—
She exhales slowly and keeps working, but her hands shake.
The sun catches in her hair, and I want to put my mouth on her neck and bite gently until she sighs my name.
Instead, I freeze, every muscle locking down, because if I move, I’m going to move, and that’s not a line I’m crossing without a signed contract, two witnesses, and a fire extinguisher. Maybe a priest. Definitely a safe word.
Once I give in and touch her, taste her, I won’t be able to stop.
“You clean it; I’ll bring the Band-Aids,” she says, and turns toward the door.
“Second drawer in the guest bathroom,” I tell her, and then watch her walk away.
I wash the cut with the hose. She comes back with the little tin Eli keeps stocked. She drops to a squat in front of me without being asked.
The hem of her top rides up. I see an inch more of skin, and the Alpha in me claws up my throat, snarling. It wants to drag her down, pin her to the deck, make her bare her throat. I lock my jaw until my teeth ache.
“Give me your hand,” she says.
I do. She pats it dry with more care than a Band-Aid deserves, puts a layer of antibacterial on it, peels the paper with her teeth, and smooths it over my knuckle. Her thumb lingers there for the space of one heartbeat too long. Then two. Then she traces the bandage like she’s memorizing the shape of my hand.
“Jess.” A warning in one syllable.
She pulls back. Smiles like she won something. “Payment.”
“For what?”
“Medical services rendered.” She nods at the hinge. “Teach me how to fix that.”
“You’re not wearing shoes.”
She looks at me like I’m adorable. “I’ll risk it.”
“You won’t.” I stand, kick off my boots, and shove them at her. “Wear these. Unless you’re squeamish.”
She puts on my boots, and they dwarf her. My scent on her skin. It’s stupid how good she looks. Stupid how Alpha-brain I go about it: mine, marked, kept.
She breathes in—small, quick, like she’s pulling my scent into her lungs on purpose. If she knew what that did to me, she’d stop. Or maybe she wouldn’t.
Her eyes find mine. “Lead the way.”
We walk to the fence, find a loose board, and gesture for the hammer she’s holding. I line up the nail, give it a few taps to keep it in place, then hand the hammer back to her.
