Chapter 11 Jamie
The water is perfect, just the way I like it—hot enough to sting when I first lower myself in and turn my skin pink. It’s almost hot enough to make me forget, briefly, about the man on the other side of the door.
I stare out at the mountains. The view is genuinely beautiful: winter-bare trees giving way to distant ridges, the sky above them fading from grey to the deep blue. It's the kind of view that belongs on a postcard and I'm annoyed by it. I didn't want to find anything likeable here.
I also didn't expect Carter to do anything other than turn up to fuck me. Instead he took the time to research omega heat care. He drove three hours with a trunk full of groceries and supplies.
At least while we were screwing, we didn’t need to talk to each other. Now, I have to get through an entire evening of... what? Small talk? Polite conversation about the weather and the drive? Hopefully, my heat will hit fully soon, then we won’t feel the need to dance around each other like this.
I sink lower in the water until it laps at my chin.
The cabin is nothing like what I expected either. I thought dynasty money would mean something sleek and modern but this is... homey. Worn. Loved. The kind of place where generations of children have run through the rooms and left their marks on the walls.
I think about the photo of Carter and Kate on the dock. Gap-toothed and sunburned, looking completely human.
I don't want to feel sympathy for him. It's easier when he's just the enemy.
My body is already wanting more. There's a low hum under my skin. I can feel the heat building in the heaviness of my limbs, the sensitivity of my skin, the way my thoughts keep drifting back to Carter's hands on my hips, Carter's mouth on mine, Carter inside me.
I stay in the bath until the water goes cold.
I don't want to get out and face more stilted conversation. As long as I'm in here, I can pretend I'm alone and pretend this is just a nice cabin with a nice view and not a cage I've locked myself into with an alpha who represents everything I despise.
But eventually the cold becomes uncomfortable, and the horniness that's been building all afternoon pulls at me. It’s sharper with each passing hour. My body doesn't care about politics. It just wants the alpha on the other side of that door.
I haul myself out of the bath, water streaming down my skin, and reach for a towel.
My bag is still in the main room. I left it by the couch when we were unloading the car. I either have to dress in my old clothes or walk out there in my towel to get clean clothes.
I take a breath. This is ridiculous. Carter has seen me naked. Carter has had his hands and mouth on every part of my body. There's no reason a towel should feel more exposing than that.
I open the bathroom door.
Carter is in the kitchen area, his back to me, doing something at the stove. I smell garlic, herbs.
I cross the room quickly, hyperaware of the towel around my hips, of my bare chest and damp skin. Carter doesn't turn around. He doesn't acknowledge me at all. But I see the tension in his shoulders, the slight stillness that tells me he knows exactly where I am and what I'm wearing.
I grab my bag and retreat to the bedroom, closing the door behind me.
The bedroom is small but comfortable. There’s a brass bed frame with a thick quilt, a dresser with more photos on top, a window that looks out at the darkening trees. I dress quickly in joggers and a loose t-shirt and take a moment to breathe.
When I come out, Carter has set two places at the small wooden table. The candles he's lit are practical. The cabin's lighting is limited, but they cast a warm glow that makes everything feel more intimate than it should.
Whatever he's cooked smells incredible. My stomach growls, reminding me that I barely ate today. I was far too anxious about the drive and what was coming.
"Sit," Carter says. "It's ready."
He brings over two plates. It’s some kind of chicken in a cream sauce with herbs, roasted vegetables on the side. There's even a garnish—a sprig of something green that he must have brought specifically for this purpose.
I sit. Take a bite. And stop.
"This is incredible," I say, before I can think better of it.
Carter's eyes widen in surprise, then he smiles. "It's just chicken."
It's not just anything. It’s amazing. I take another bite. I've eaten at expensive restaurants that couldn't match this. "Where did you learn to cook like this?"
"Here, mostly." Carter sits across from me, starts eating. "My grandmother taught me. I spent a lot of time in the kitchen with her when I was young."
"She was a good teacher," I manage.
"She was." There's warmth in his voice when he talks about her. The same warmth I heard when he mentioned Kate.
"My mother couldn't cook at all," I find myself saying. I don't know why I'm offering this. "We lived on frozen dinners and takeout. She worked too much to learn, and by the time she had more time, she was too sick to care."
Carter looks at me. I've said too much. I’ve given away something personal, something real. I brace for him to push, to ask about my mother's illness, to pry into territory I don't want to discuss.
But all he says is, "That must have been hard."
"It was what it was."
We eat in silence for a while. It's less oppressive than before. The food gives us something to focus on, something to do with our hands and mouths that isn't talking or fucking.
"This isn't what I expected," I say eventually.
Carter looks at me across the table. The candlelight catches the planes of his face, the sharp line of his jaw. "Me neither, but then I don’t know what I expected.”
“Yeah,” I say. My skin is getting warmer. I can feel the flush creeping up my chest, my neck. The heat is building faster now, responding to Carter's proximity, to his scent filling the small cabin. Every breath I take is saturated with him.
I'm hyperaware of his hands as he eats and the way his fingers wrap around his fork. The way his mouth moves when he chews. His every makes my pulse quicken and my body clench with want. I want to throw the plates to the floor and bend over the table. I want…
"I should—" I stand abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. "I'm going to get some air."
I don't wait for Carter to respond. I cross to the front door and step out onto the porch, letting the cold hit me like a wall.
It helps. Briefly. The winter air is sharp in my lungs, biting at my overheated skin. I grip the porch railing and breathe, trying to will my body back under control.
The stars are out. Thousands of them, more than I've ever seen from the city, scattered across the sky in careless abundance. It's beautiful. I should appreciate it. I should be thinking about anything other than the man inside.
It doesn't work.
The heat isn't building anymore. It's here. I can feel it rolling through me in waves, each one stronger than the last. My skin feels too tight. My clothes feel like sandpaper. Every nerve ending is lit up and screaming for the alpha waiting inside.
I close my eyes and grip the railing harder.
This is just biology. It’s hormones and pheromones and millions of years of evolution demanding that I find an alpha and mate. It doesn't mean anything. It doesn't have to mean anything.
But my body doesn't care about that. My body cares about the man inside, about his scent and his hands and the way he felt inside me less than two hours ago.
My body is flooding with need so intense it's almost painful, a hollow ache that starts low in my belly and spreads outward until I can feel it in my fingertips, my toes, the roots of my hair.
I drop my head forward, breathing hard.
The cold isn't helping anymore. If anything, it's making it worse—the contrast between the freezing air and my burning skin is too much. I'm shivering and sweating at the same time, my body confused and desperate and completely beyond my control.
The last part of my rational brain thinks about calling Akari. Telling her I made a mistake, that I shouldn't have come here, that I need—
But I don't need her. I don't need anyone except the alpha inside, the one whose scent I can still smell even out here, carried on the cold air with me.
Besides it’s too late. Deep inside I know that. I couldn’t refuse him now. I couldn’t refuse him every time he texted me in the last months. I couldn’t refuse him in that first hotel room. I was lost the moment Carter Crane III walked out onto the set of Point of Contention.
I drop my head forward, breathing hard.
I turn and go back inside.
Carter is still at the table, but he's stopped eating. He's watching the door, and when I come through it, something in his expression shifts. He knows.
I must look wrecked already. I know I’m flushed and glassy-eyed, my chest heaving, my hands trembling at my sides. Sweat beads at my temples even though I was just standing in the freezing cold.
"Jamie," Carter says. His voice is lower than before. Rougher.
"I need—" I can't finish the sentence. I don't have words for what I need. I just have this desperate, all-consuming want.
Carter stands. He crosses to me slowly, like he's approaching something wild. Maybe he is. I feel wild right now and completely untethered, like I might fly apart if he doesn't touch me soon.
He stops inches away. He’s close enough that I can feel the heat coming off his body, smell his scent so strongly it makes me dizzy. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide.
"Tell me what you need," he says.
"You." The word comes out broken. "I need you."
Carter's hands come up to cup my face. The touch is gentle and I lean into it helplessly, turning my head to press my lips against his palm.
"Okay," he murmurs. "I've got you."
He kisses me, and it's nothing like before.