Chapter 37
WREN
Atlas has me wrapped in his arms, and my body goes haywire.
The ultimate betrayal.
Right now, I’m terrified of the prospect that my Omega nature is still untrustworthy after last night. I’m terrified I’m about to fall back into a heat spike. And I will have to flee the country, dye my hair, and change my name if I start rubbing myself against this man.
So, I do the natural thing given the circumstances… I start arguing.
“I know you can’t stand me.” Shaking myself off before stepping back out of his grasp, I smooth the front of my hoodie—Connor’s hoodie that he’s never getting back—down with a couple of swipes of my palms. “So I promise, I’ll keep well out of your way.”
Atlas has a steel edge to his expression. Like a trap about to snap shut and leave me howling in pain.
“This isn’t exactly the time, or place, to talk this through…
but Connor and Theo have offered to help me with my heats.
” Kill me now. I’m talking openly about my need to be knotted into oblivion by two Alphas, while he tries to watch game tapes just down the hall.
“I told them I’d gladly make arrangements with a heat clinic, but in case you haven’t noticed, those two bring their bull-headed attitude along for the ride when they’re off the rugby pitch, too. ”
The man towering over me folds his arms. Those hazel eyes look greener today, and they slide down to the hoodie I’m swimming in.
Can he tell just by looking that this is Connor’s hoodie?
Do his senses pick up another Alpha’s scent to the point he can tell it belongs to his roommate?
Under the weight of his focus slowly dragging back up to my face, it doesn’t matter that it’s a late winter’s day; my cheeks glow hot.
“No.” A muscle tics furiously in the side of his jaw.
No, what?
My mouth hangs open, incredulous that he keeps barely uttering a single word at a time. No, I can’t expect him to keep this secret, or no to being involved with his teammate, or is that a no to the concept of sleeping under the same roof?
“Well, I’m sorry, but—”
This time, he cuts me off with a growl. “No heat clinic.”
Oh.
OH.
Okay, well, that’s really not what I expected him to say. At. All.
The forcefulness of his words leaves me gaping like a trout.
“Let’s go.” Another near-monosyllabic offering is paired with a jerk of his head this time.
With my mind racing, I follow after him, confused, bemused, basically baffled into submission by his ice-cold exterior and impenetrable shell.
We reach a large storage area inside the main building. It’s a mishmash of stacked shelves all containing items for the dogs. Feed, bedding, and I guess what must be their adoption kits, including things like a brand-new collar and blanket.
Atlas hands me a clipboard with a pen, and there’s a packing slip on the top of the paperwork. He turns, without explanation, and begins cutting open the bulk wrapping, which reveals sacks of dog biscuits.
“Count these.” He points, before starting to haul them across to the dry store area. Each one must be at least fifty pounds, yet he makes it look as though they weigh next to nothing. Those bags might as well contain feathers.
Do not keep staring at his biceps. Stop glancing at his ass and thighs in those jeans. Do not drool over his hands.
I’m such a slut for the veins on his hands.
“So, you’re sure you’re okay with all this?” I clear my throat, deciding to poke my nose back into the red-alert awkwardness of my impending heat situation. You know, to avoid the compulsive thoughts of what those thick fingers might be able to do while away from the rugby field.
He chews rocks for a moment, then nods.
“I really didn’t mean for any of this to happen.” Keeping my eyes on the page, I tick off the correct quantities: large, medium, and small dog varieties.
“It’s fine.”
Clutching the paperwork against my chest, I dare to look at him as another of those giant sacks is lifted into his strong arms. “You’re having to upend your life, and I feel extremely guilty about that.”
He stays silent.
Is it because he doesn’t say anything that I end up with no ability to halt the runaway train of words tumbling out of my mouth? Is that what this is? Because, for some unknown and highly uncomfortable reason, I keep saying words.
“For what it’s worth, I really did plan on handling everything myself. Coming to Willow Falls was a mistake… I realize that now… but this was the only place that would accept me for a scholarship, and I just want to get my degree. I promise that’s the only reason I came here.”
His back stays turned to me, and foolish, stupid, stubborn Omega that I am, my steps take me over to where he’s doing something with the empty pallet. It feels urgent that I make sure he’s hearing me, and not secretly stuffed noise-canceling ear pods in or something while I wasn’t looking.
“This stupid scent match stuff came along and blew all my plans out of the water.”
As I say the words, Atlas turns abruptly, probably not noticing that I’m right on his heels. It sends me stumbling backward into a metal shelf, and I let out a hiss of pain as the corner digs in between my shoulder blades.
Except, I hardly have time to register the bloom of sharp sting against my spine. There’s nothing but Atlas, looming large in front of me, blocking everything else from sight. His face is a mask of something furious… but it’s not anger… it’s…
Those giant arms cage me in, gripping the shelf on either side of me, pinning me beneath that cavernous chest. A body I know for a fact to be a lethal weapon, when he hurls himself at other giant men, felling them to the ground.
This is a man who could crush a lung with a single hand if he wanted to.
He could so easily use that brute strength in a way that is a destructive force, and yet he chooses to spend time helping to heave sacks of dog food around and clean out kennels.
I swallow heavily, getting another hint of that scent of his finally weaving its way through my awareness.
And this time, it’s visceral in the image it conjures.
Not only do I scent a bonfire, the faint hint of charcoal mixed with smoky bourbon and citrus, but I see it in my mind’s eye.
I see him and me, and we’re tangled together in a camp chair beneath the stars.
I see other figures around us. I hear Connor’s laugh and Theo’s low rumble.
It’s enough to leave me panting. Are we meant to be a pack… together?
Goosebumps flurry their way across my skin, and the shelf behind me lets out a metallic groan when Atlas tightens his grip. Is he holding himself back from something? From me?
I swear on my life, my pulse has never kicked up this fast, not knowing whether I’m supposed to race for the hills right this second, or throw myself at this man.
He’s impossible to read or understand. With Connor, it was immediate, an instant flirtation and sense of being drawn together with his charm.
Where Theo is concerned, it feels predestined somehow.
Our natures recognized that scent match within a heartbeat.
With Atlas? He’s aloof, unapproachable, and surly whenever we cross paths.
Oh my god.
My breaths shallow, chest rising and falling faster as a silent moment extends between us, where that expression tightening his features becomes one of intense and furious longing like I’ve never seen.
That hazel gaze of his drifts down my face, landing on my lips, and that’s when I see it.
His pupils blow out.
Staring at my mouth, he looks ready to devour me on the spot if I so much as move an inch.
Like he’s pissed off at me for being here and yet can’t bring himself to step away.
A pulse flickers away in the side of his jaw, all while his focus continues to linger on the place where my lips part.
I can’t form a single word to ask him what’s happening right now.
A shiver takes hold of me. Do I dare reach for him? Do I dare break this spell?
The universe makes a decision on our behalf.
Linda’s voice drifts in through the open doorway, followed by another person’s reply. Oh, fuck. We spring apart, and the loss of his warmth coating me from head to toe feels like a hole was just ripped in the very plane of my reality.
I can’t even think straight, as I bury my nose in the paperwork attached to this goddamn clipboard, pretending to be extremely busy doing something that doesn’t involve drooling over my brother’s best friend.
“Here he is…” Linda enthusiastically claps her hands, while a man with a laptop bag and camera slung over a shoulder follows behind. The reporter. “Here’s the star of the hour here at Wagging Tails. Atlas Palamo.”