Page 89 of In Knots

“But you are?”

“I’m here.”

“And in heat,” he says, his tongue darting from his mouth to wet his lips and his gaze trailing down my body. Then he screws up his eyes, as if he’s forcing himself to concentrate. “What happened?” he says. “Why are you so wet? And what’s this about an ankle?”

He steps closer and my breath hitches as a throb starts to pound between my legs.

“I left.”

He takes another step closer. His eyes continue to roam all over my body, but I can tell he’s listening to me intently. “You left? That doesn’t explain anything, hot cheeks.”

“I walked out. Walked all the way here.”

“Because?”

“This is where I wanted to be.”

“For your heat?”

“Always,” I whisper, and his eyes leap up to meet mine. His are blazing. He’s being pulled under by my heat. Soon we’ll both be unable to form proper thoughts. I’m struggling to hold on to them as it is.

“Always is a very long time.”

He’s standing right above me now and I sink low into the sofa, parting my thighs. His eyes grow wide as he watches, then shakes his head, forcing away whatever thoughts are invading his mind.

“Why didn’t you call us, Omega?”

“I lost my phone.”

I try to wriggle off Ryan’s shorts, taking my underwear with them. He captures my hand in his, stopping me. “There is more to this story than you are telling me.”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Alpha,” I moan. “I want to come. Ineedto come.”

He releases my hand as if my touch is scorching and spins on his heels, marching towards the kitchen. “I need to know what’s happened here, Omega.” His back is to me as he rifles through the cupboards, pulling out a first aid kit. “Did someone hurt you?” His voice is swallowed by a deep growl and he leans forward, gipping the edge of the counter with straining fingers.

I whimper. It’s too much. His dizzying scent, his animalistic growl. My skin is crying out for his touch.

He groans. Then tosses his head and snaps up straight, walking briskly to the freezer and scooping out ice from the tray. Then he strides to my side and drops to his knees. Careful, he takes my injured ankle in his hands, taking shallow breaths through his clenched teeth, his eyes forced on my foot. He feels the bone gently with his fingers.

“Does it hurt?” he asks me.

“No, not there,’ I moan, clutching at my cramping stomach.

“Omega!” he warns.

I swallow hard, closing my eyes, trying to do as he wants. “It doesn’t hurt so much anymore. Honestly. I think I just jarred it.”

“I think you should rest it on the ice–”

“I don’t need it,” I say, reaching for him instead, grabbing at his shirt, attempting to drag him closer.

Again, he captures my fingers, and with a sharp inhale, tugs my hand away. Then in silence he coils a bandage around my ankle, our combined pants the only sounds in the room, his brow tightly knotted in concentration. When there is no bandage left to wrap, he tucks in the end and peers up at me.

“Now tell me what happened, Omega? Who hurt you?”

“No one!”

“Omega, you need to concentrate for me,” I shake my head. I can’t. All I can concentrate on is the proximity of his touch, the warmth of his body, the intensity of his scent. “You need to tell me who hurt you so I can rip their fucking throat out!”

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