Page 123 of Pack Frenzy
“I’m sure.” I cut him off before he can twist this into a lecture on timing and trauma. “And I don’t want you to hold back because you’re scared I’ll break. I’m not going to break.”
His jaw flexes, something hot and raw behind his eyes. He’s been holding the line with me for days. Weeks. The thought that he might be afraid of hurting me should make me feel fragile. Instead, it makes me feel…chosen.
“I need—” The words stick for a second, but I force them out. “I need to feel like I belong. Not a placement. Not a project.” My breath hitches. “I chose this, you, all of it, and I’m terrified you’ll—” I stop myself, but the words hang there anyway. Terrified you’ll leave. Terrified I’m not worth staying for.
But fuck the consequences, I can’t not feel him with me any longer.
Something in his face shifts then. The control doesn’t vanish, exactly, but it stops standing between us.
“You are our Omega,” he says, voice gone rough. “You always have been.”
Then he’s kissing me.
This isn’t the careful, testing kind of kiss we’ve shared before—the ones buffered by restraint and unspoken questions. This is heat and relief and something that feels an awful lot like a promise that he’s done holding himself at arm’s length.
His hands slide deeper into my hair, tilting my head, and I pull him closer, fingers bunching in his shirt like I’m trying to erase the memory of critical eyes and Nexus and the word flexibility disguised as a threat.
We stumble backward—my shoulders hit the wall next to the security panel, and the impact jolts through me in a way that grounds me in my own body instead of the one Nexus measured.
Rowan braces his forearm beside my head, caging me in, and for once the feeling of being trapped doesn’t make me want to run. It makes me want to stay.
“Tell me if I need to stop,” he murmurs against my mouth.
“Don’t.” The word comes out desperate, almost pleading. “Don’t stop.”
He lifts me, and I wrap my legs around his hips, and somehow he carries me upstairs, never breaking our kisses.
Then he walks me backward until my shoulders find the edge of his doorframe and we stumble into his bedroom.
It smells faintly of sandalwood and rain—Rowan—but underneath it lingers something softer, familiar: Eli’s clean warmth, his scent faintly woven through the sheets.
The click when his door shuts sounds final and makes my pulse stutter.
Then he pulls away as if he doesn’t want to, as if breaking our lips might mean I’ll change my mind and run.
I reach for his collar, fingers brushing the rough edge of his throat. “You just going to stand there and make me do all the work?” My voice isn’t steady, but it’s mine.
His mouth curves, almost a smile. “You said you wanted control.”
“I do.” So I lift my hair, turning my back so he can undo my zipper on the navy cocktail dress.
Cool air ghosts over my shoulder blades as he slides the zipper down. His hands still.
“Rowan?”
His breath roughens. “They’re almost gone.”
I know what he means before I see where he’s looking: the faint yellow halos low on my back from being tasered.
“It’s fine.”
“Not fine,” he answers. “But fading.”
He doesn’t ask permission; he waits for it—eyes on mine until I nod. Then he bends and presses his mouth to the first bruise, then the second—soft, reverent kisses that turn the last trace of hurt into heat.
A shiver races down my spine, not from cold.
“They don’t get to leave their mark on you,” he says against my skin. “Only if you want it.”
