Chapter 18
Saramaria
Heat.
It swallows me whole. I am floating in a sea of it, weightless and tethered only by the hands on my skin.
They are everywhere. Strong, callused hands that know exactly where to touch. A hand grips my hip, fingers digging in with possessive force—Rhett. I know his touch. It’s anchoring me to the mattress even as I feel like I’m flying.
Another hand is in my hair, tilting my head back. Knox. He’s hovering over me, his weight a delicious pressure on my chest. His scent crashes over me—whiskey and ginger. It makes my head spin, makes my blood sing.
Then there’s the mouth on my neck.
It starts at the curve of my shoulder, hot and open. A tongue traces the line of my jugular, sending a jolt of electricity straight down my spine. Teeth graze the sensitive skin there, not biting, just threatening to.
A moan tears from my throat, wanton and loud.
“Tell us what you want, Saramaria,” Rhett murmurs against my ear, his voice vibrating through my bones.
Knox laughs, and the sound is wicked and bright. “She doesn’t have to tell us. We can smell it.”
The mouth on my neck moves lower, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. Boone. It has to be Boone. The scent of rosemary and mint is intoxicating, mixing with the vanilla that pours from my own skin. He nips at the pulse point, and my back arches off the bed.
I’m surrounded. Consumed. Three Alphas, all focused on me. The air is thick with pheromones, a heavy, musk-laden fog that makes it hard to breathe. I don’t want to breathe. I only want this.
I reach out, my fingers tangling in dark hair. Whose? I don’t know. I don’t care. I just need to hold on.
The mouth on my neck licks a wet stripe up to my ear.
“Ours,” a voice growls.
The heat intensifies, burning me from the inside out. I’m going to combust. I’m going to—
Wet. Cold. Wet. Cold.
My eyes snap open.
I gasp, my body jerking upright, my heart hammering. The dream clings to me, the phantom sensations of hands and mouths lingering on my skin making me flushed and aching.
But reality rushes in cold and fast.
I’m not in a harem. I’m on a mattress on the floor of the main house. The fire in the hearth has died down to glowing embers, casting the room in shadows that dance and shift.
And something is licking my neck.
I flinch, wiping at my skin frantically.
A soft, high-pitched yip meets my ear.
I blink, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. Wellsy. He’s sitting on my chest, his tail thumping happily against my stomach. He licks my chin again, his tongue rough and cold.
“Ew,” I mutter, pushing him away gently. “Gross, Wellsy.”
He yips again and flops over, exposing his belly.
My heart rate begins to slow, the adrenaline fading into a dull hum. I look around the room. Knox is asleep on the rug near the hearth, sprawled out like a giant starfish. Rhett is on the sofa, an arm thrown over his eyes. Boone is in the armchair, his long legs stretched out toward the fire.
The room is still. The only sound is the wind howling outside and the crackle of the dying fire.
Then, my stomach makes a noise.
It’s not a polite rumble. It’s a loud, thunderous growl that echoes in the silence. Wellsy barks at it.
My face heats up. I press a hand to my abdomen, trying to silence the betrayal. I missed dinner. I was too busy burning down the yard and yelling at everyone.
“Are you hungry?”
The voice comes from the armchair.
I jump slightly. Boone lowers his arm. His eyes are open, reflecting the orange light of the coals. He’s watching me, and he doesn’t look sleepy. He looks wide awake.
“I can sleep,” I lie, my voice raspy.
“I heard that,” he says, nodding toward my stomach. “It sounded like a bear waking up from hibernation.”
“I’m fine,” I insist, pulling the quilt up higher.
“There’s a burger left,” he says. “From The Salt Lick. It’s wrapped in foil on the mantle. If you want it.”
I hesitate. I’m stubborn. I don’t want to take charity from him. I don’t want to admit that I need anything from him.
But the mention of the burger sends a fresh wave of hunger through me that makes my mouth water. Beef? Cheese? It all sounds heavenly. Better than heavenly. It sounds like survival.
I look at the fireplace. The embers are fading. The warmth is leaching out of the air.
“Maybe,” I whisper.
Boone moves. He stands up.
I watch him, and for some reason, my breath catches.
He looks taller than usual. Maybe it’s because I’m lying on the floor on a mattress.
Maybe it’s the shadows stretching up the walls.
He towers over the space, a dark silhouette against the glow of the fire.
He is wearing a tight black T-shirt and his jeans.
His shoulders are broad, his waist narrow.
He walks to the mantle and retrieves the foil packet. He moves with that economy of motion he has, never wasting energy. He comes back to the mattress and crouches down.
He holds out the foil. It’s cold, but that doesn’t matter.
I take it. “Thanks.”
He doesn’t leave. He sits on the floor, cross-legged, near the foot of the bed. Wellsy abandons me immediately, trotting over to Boone and resting his head on his knee. Boone scratches the dog’s ears automatically, his eyes on the fire.
I unwrap the burger. It’s a little smashed, the bun soggy from the grease, but it smells amazing.
I break off a piece of the patty and toss it to Wellsy. He snaps it up. Then I look over the edge of the mattress. Blue is curled up near Knox, but he lifts his head at the smell of food. I tear off a piece of meat and toss it to him, too.
“You don’t have to feed them,” Boone says. “They already ate.”
“That was hours ago. I’m sure they must be hungry too,” I say, taking a bite of the burger.
The flavor explodes on my tongue—salt, fat, cheese.
It’s the best thing I have ever tasted. The beef is salty, the cheese tasty, and the bun has absorbed just enough of the grease to be soft without falling apart.
I take another bite, closing my eyes as the flavors coat my tongue.
The frantic energy that has been vibrating under my skin all day begins to settle, replaced by a heavy, satisfied lethargy.
I eat quickly, not caring about manners.
Wellsy watches me with intense focus, his head resting on Boone’s knee.
When I have only a bite left, I break off another tiny piece of the bun and hand it to Blue.
He takes it gently, then looks at Boone as if asking for permission.
Boone just shakes his head, a small, amused huff escaping him.
“You’ve got him trained,” I say, wiping my mouth with a paper napkin Boone must have brought with the food.
“He’s a smart dog,” Boone says. He stands up, his knees cracking slightly in the silence. He walks to the hearth and picks up the iron poker. He stoops, poking at the embers, rearranging the logs.
The fire flares, a new wave of heat rolling over the room. I watch him. The light catches the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his shoulders under the tight T-shirt.
He looks older than the boy who pulled me from the mud eight years ago. The lines around his eyes are deeper, etched by sun and worry. But he’s still Boone. Still the one person who could always make me feel safe, even when I wanted to hate him.
He tosses a log onto the fire and dusts off his hands. He turns back to me, leaning against the mantle.
“Better?” he asks.
I look down at the foil wrapper in my hand, crushing it into a ball. “Yes. Actually. I am.”
The admission surprises me. It should be a lie.
I should still be angry about the leases, about the betrayal, about the way he manhandled me earlier.
But the fire is warm. The food is sitting heavy and good in my stomach.
And for the first time since I arrived in Muddy Creek, the noise in my head has stopped.
“Good,” he says.
He pushes off the mantle and walks over to the mattress. He doesn’t sit this time. He crouches down beside me, bringing himself to my eye level. The scent of him—rosemary and citrus and cool mint—washes over me, stronger now that he’s close.
I tense, expecting a lecture. Expecting him to bring up the papers again.
Instead, he reaches out. His hand moves toward my face, and I flinch, pulling back slightly.
He pauses, his hand hovering in the air. He doesn’t force it. He waits.
I stop breathing. I stare at his hand, large and callused, the knuckles scraped from work or maybe from the fight at the bar.
Slowly, I lean back into his space.
His fingers brush against my cheek. He tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear. The touch is light, barely there, but it sends a shockwave through my system that has nothing to do with the cold or the fear. His skin is rough, warm against my face.
I almost choke on nothing.
Why does his touch feel so good? Why does it make my heart race and my stomach flip?
I pull my gaze from his hand to his eyes. In the firelight, they are dark, endless pools. There’s no mockery there. No anger. Just a heavy intensity that makes my chest ache.
He smiles. It’s a small, barely-there curve of his lips, but it reaches his eyes. It’s almost genuine. A rare, fragile thing I haven’t seen in years.
“What is...” I start to ask, my voice barely a whisper.
I want to ask what he’s doing. I want to ask why he’s looking at me like that. I want to ask why the air between us feels so thick, so charged.
But the words die in my throat. I can’t give him that power. I can’t let him know how much he affects me.
He tilts his head, studying me. His thumb traces the line of my jaw, a slow, maddening drag that makes my toes curl.
“Your hair,” he says, his voice dropping an octave. “It looks so much redder in the firelight.”
I freeze. My heart stumbles. Red. Like my mother’s. Like the hair I’ve been dyeing brown for a decade to fit into a world that doesn’t appreciate wild things.
“I...” I don’t know what to say.