1. Dusty #2
The realization hits me with clinical clarity even through the haze of want—I'm ovulating.
Around fifteen days before my period, like clockwork, though I've never paid much attention before.
Never had a reason to. But now my body's screaming at me, recognizing something primal in the man behind that glass, something that makes every cell stand at attention and beg.
I should leave. Should run before this gets worse, before he catches me watching like some creep. But he shifts under the spray, water streaming down the hard planes of his stomach, and a small sound escapes my throat—halfway between a whimper and a sigh.
Then pressure blooms in my chest.
It starts as a gentle ache, a strange fullness I don't recognize spreading across my chest like a tide I can't control. At first, it's almost pleasant—a warm, heavy sensation that seems connected to the heat pooling between my thighs as I watch Damian's magnificent body move under the spray.
But within seconds, the feeling shifts and intensifies into something urgent and completely wrong.
My breasts feel heavy and swollen, pressing tight against the worn fabric of my threadbare shirt in a way that sends alarm bells ringing through my head.
The sensation is foreign, uncomfortable, like my body doesn't belong to me anymore.
The fullness builds with each heartbeat, each shallow breath I take while pressed against this wall like some perverted voyeur.
It's not just arousal anymore—this is something else entirely, something that makes panic spike sharp and cold through the desire that had been clouding my brain just moments before.
I press my palms against my chest instinctively, trying to ease the strange pressure, and that's when I feel it—dampness. Warmth spreading against my skin where there shouldn't be any.
I tear my gaze from Damian's body and look down at myself, expecting nothing—maybe just the flush of arousal, the rapid rise and fall of my breathing.
My shirt clings to my chest. Dark, wet spots bloom across the threadbare cotton, spreading outward from my nipples like ink stains.
No.
My hands fly up, pressing against my breasts, and moisture seeps through my fingers. Warm. Definitely not water. Not sweat.
I'm lactating.
The gasp tears out of me before I can stop it—loud, sharp, cutting through the quiet house like a gunshot.
Through the bathroom door, the water shuts off.
"Who's there?"
His voice rolls through me, deep and commanding, making every hair on my body stand on end. Not angry yet. Just alert. Dangerous.
I stumble backward, pulse hammering so hard I can't hear anything else. My hands stay pressed to my chest, trying to hide the evidence, trying to stop the leak that won't quit. This can't be happening. I'm eighteen. I've never been pregnant. I've never had— This doesn't make sense.
"Lena," I hiss as I sprint back down the hall, keeping my arms crossed tight over my breasts. "Mack. We need to go now."
Lena's head snaps up from where she's stuffing her pockets. "What?—"
"He's here. He's here and he heard me and we need to?—"
"Shit." Mack's already moving toward the window, his usual calm shattered. "Go, go!"
I reach them and grab Lena's arm with one hand, the other still clamped over my chest. She gives me a weird look, her eyes dropping to where I'm holding myself.
"What are you?—"
"Just move," I beg, shoving her toward the kitchen.
Behind us, a door opens. Footsteps—heavy, purposeful—echo down the hall.
"I know someone's here," Damian calls out, closer now.
We duck into the kitchen, pressing ourselves behind the island counter.
My back slams against the cabinet doors, and I fight to keep my breathing quiet even though my lungs scream for air.
Lena crouches beside me, eyes wide with fear I rarely see there.
Mack's on my other side, his usual calm completely gone as he mutters curses under his breath.
The footsteps grow louder, closer. Through the gap between the counter and the stove, I watch Damian stride into view.
He wears nothing but a white towel wrapped low around his hips, still damp from the shower, water droplets trailing down the ridges of his chest and abs.
Every muscle shifts and flexes as he moves, prowling through his house like that wolf tattooed on his forearm.
His dark hair sticks up in wild angles from being hastily dried, and his gray eyes scan the space with sharp, focused intensity.
He's even more devastating in person than in that portrait.
Then his gaze lands on the counter. On the empty chicken platter, the half-eaten cake, the soup pot with the ladle still in it. On the crumbs and smears and mess we left behind like animals.
His expression shifts—confusion, then something close to disgust twisting his features.
"What the hell?"
Shame floods through me so fast and hot I want to melt into the floor and disappear.
My cheeks burn. We ate his food. Tore through it like rats, like we had no manners, no self-control.
Because we didn't. Because we were hungry and it was there and we're exactly what he probably thinks street kids are—dirty thieves who take everything they can get their filthy hands on.
I press harder against the cabinet, wishing I could become invisible. Wishing I'd never looked at that portrait, never watched him in the shower, never come to this house at all.
He stands there for what feels like forever, staring at the destruction of his meal. His jaw works, that stubble-covered jaw that had made my stomach flip, now tight with irritation or anger or—I don't know. I can't read him. Can't do anything but hold my breath and pray he doesn't look down.
Finally, he shakes his head and walks away, footsteps receding down the hall.
We wait. Ten seconds. Twenty. A full minute passes before Lena nudges me.
"He's gone," she whispers. "Let's move."
We rise slowly, carefully, still clutching our stolen goods. My shirt's still damp against my chest, the wetness cooling now, making me shiver. I don't understand what happened—why my body did that—but I shove the thought away. Survival first. Questions later.
We creep toward the window, Mack in the lead. Almost there. Almost free.
A shadow shifts in front of us.
Damian steps out from beside the doorway, blocking our path, and his hand shoots out faster than I can process. His fingers close around my upper arm like a vice, yanking me forward with enough force that I cry out.
"Got you," he growls.
"No!" Lena lunges for me, grabbing my other arm. Mack joins her, both pulling, trying to break his grip.
But Damian doesn't budge. His hand stays locked on me like steel, muscles flexing as he holds firm against both of them. His bare chest rises and falls with measured breaths, completely unbothered by their efforts.
"Let her go!" Lena shouts, desperation cracking her voice.
Damian's eyes never leave mine. "Not a chance."
"Dusty—" Mack pulls harder, his face twisted with guilt and fear.
But it's useless. He's too strong, too solid, an immovable wall of muscle and determination. After another few seconds of futile struggling, Lena's grip slackens.
"We can't," she whispers, and the words break something in my chest. "Dusty, I'm sorry. I'm so?—"
"Go," I manage, even though tears blur my vision. "Just go."
They hesitate one more second, then bolt for the window. Their footsteps fade into the night, leaving me alone with him.
Damian reaches for the light switch, and sudden brightness floods the kitchen, making me squint. His grip on my arm loosens slightly as he finally gets a good look at me—really looks—and something shifts in his expression.
His brows draw together. His lips part.
"You're just a little girl," he says, and his voice has gone soft, confused, like he can't quite believe what he's seeing.