25. Clara
Clara
"Darlin'… Darlin'."
My eyes fly open. The endear ment rings through my mind. I sit bolt upright, gathering the sheets and clutching them to my chest.
Last night I’d gone to bed early. I scan the room, but the moon is a sliver and everything is obscured by darkness.
Yet, in the corner—is that an outline?
The baked-bread scent engulfs the room. My omega loves it, and I perfume. Heat slips through my core and slicks my panties. Traitorous omega. My hands shake as I reach for the deco lamp on my side table.
Light floods the room and all the shadows flee—except one. The ink-black shadow in the corner stays. It’s the shape of an alpha. At least six feet tall and broad. Swirls of shadow make up its form.
My heart is in my throat. I should scream—need to scream—but I can’t.
The swirling shadows take a step closer. As they move and shift, little peaks of what’s underneath bleed through. A muscled arm. A pale blue eye. A strip of white-blond hair. The hints of a man are not enough. I want more.
His scent grows stronger until I know it can only be a scent-sensitive match. How could I be scent-sensitive with a shadow? The question slogs through my mind. Everything feels slow.
The shadow reaches the end of my bed, and I feel its weight dip the mattress.
It crawls up my body over the blankets. Every part of me it touches lights up in delicious pleasure. My legs fall open beneath the sheets. My panties are so wet they’ll have to be peeled off.
Why am I reacting this way?
My omega wants this. She’s not terrified—even if my heart beats a million miles a minute—because I am.
The shadow positions itself between my legs, forearms caging my head. Its face hovers just above mine, the side of a cheek brushing against me. Scent-marking me.
Its body presses down, a long, hard length grinding against my slick core. Even through the thin blankets, I can feel how thick it is.
I gasp—and my eyes, which I thought were already open, fly open again.
No one hovers above me.
I sit bolt upright—again.
A nightmare. Or a dream. I can’t decide. But the lamp is still on, the blankets at the corner of my bed rumpled where the shadow had crawled, and the scent of bread lingers.
What the hell?
I can’t sleep, but I don’t want to wander the house alone in the dark. So I sit up, trying to read my book club book, but only manage the same page over and over, absorbing nothing.
An hour later, I hear movement and decide to make my way downstairs.
At the bottom of the steps, I scent someone on the main floor. Pumpkin and cinnamon.
Victor.
I take two steadying breaths—which is the wrong thing to do. His scent floods me. It’s like stepping into the warm embrace of a long-lost, beloved friend. I want to live in it. My omega wants to run to him and kiss him until he gets over all his issues.
Usu ally I follow my instincts. But not this time.
I walk into the kitchen, determined to play it cool. Do I deserve an apology for the way he’s treated me? Definitely. But I won’t stoop to asking for it. I want the pack in sync, and demanding things from its most hostile member isn’t the way to get there.
I don’t want to look at him. Don’t want him to see how much his rejection hurts. But I’ve always, always wanted to find my scent-sensitive mates. It’s the fairytale I was convinced would happen for me. Victor is supposed to be part of that happily ever after.
When I finally glance up, he’s already staring. His expression is far from pleasant. His whole body rigid, the tattoos around his neck flexing, brows drawn tight.
Victor snatches up a notepad and pencil without a word and storms upstairs. His thundering steps scream that I shouldn’t follow.
It takes everything I have to swallow back the omega whine clawing up my throat. Too much effort to hold it in leaves nothing to stop the tears that slip down my cheeks before I swipe them away.
If he were anyone else, I wouldn’t care. I wouldn’t waste a thought on why he doesn’t like me. But he’s not anyone else. He’s my mate.
And he’s rejecting me.
Maybe I could bear it if he weren’t part of the same pack as my other alphas. Twins with one. He means something to them—and I don’t want to be the wedge.
So I wipe my tears away, shove down the disappointment, and replace it with determination. There has to be a reason. I’ll find it. I’ll fix it.
Until then, I’ll focus on the alphas who want me. The ones who don’t flinch away.