8. Damon #2
I scoop him up before he can change his mind. He’s heavier than he looks, solid and warm, damp fur soaking into my sleeve. He tolerates being carried with long-suffering patience, eyes half-lidded, one paw braced against my chest like he’s prepared for betrayal.
Something twists in my gut.
I open the passenger door and set him on the seat. He sniffs the upholstery, circles once, then settles like this is normal behavior.
“Don’t get used to this,” I tell him, even as I pull the seatbelt across his middle to keep him from launching himself into the dashboard.
He stares at me.
I drive.
Caroline’s house looks wrong the moment I pull up. The yard is damp and trampled, grass pressed flat in uneven paths. One window is shoved open, screen bent inward like it was pushed in a hurry. My pulse kicks up again.
I park crooked and grab Thistle, tucking him under one arm as I move fast up the steps.
“Caroline?” I knock once. Then again, harder.
Nothing.
The smell hits me before I can knock a third time. Sweat. Spice. Heat. It crawls up my throat, thick and cloying, makes my stomach flip and my pulse stumble. It’s wrong, too strong to be normal, too present to be ignored.
I knock again. “Caroline. It’s Damon.”
No answer.
My skin prickles. This isn’t right.
I set Thistle down. He sits, ears forward, eyes locked on the door like he knows exactly what’s on the other side.
“Stay,” I tell him, which is ridiculous. He ignores me.
I jog back to the cruiser, pop the trunk, and dig through the mess of gear and tools. Crowbar. Screwdriver. A flashlight I forgot to charge. I grab what I can, hands clumsy with urgency.
When I turn back, Thistle is still watching me, unblinking, tail twitching once.
“I’m fixing the door,” I tell him. “Don’t look at me like that.”
The crowbar slips into the frame. I brace my foot, lean my weight in. The wood groans, then splinters. The lock gives with a crack that echoes too loud in the small house.
The door swings inward.
The scent rolls over me in a wave.
Warm honey. Cinnamon. Clove.
It’s everywhere. Thick. Saturated. It fills my nose, coats my tongue, presses against my skin like humidity.
My body reacts before my brain catches up.
Heat coils low and sharp. My breath stutters. I grip the doorframe, knuckles whitening, and force myself to inhale through my mouth.
Get a grip.
“Caroline,” I call, voice rougher than I want.
Thistle bolts past me, claws skidding on the hardwood as he disappears into the living room.
I follow, senses overloaded, every step deliberate. The house feels charged, like the air itself is vibrating. My head throbs harder, a pressure behind my eyes that makes the edges of my vision blur.
And then I see her.
She’s on the floor near the sofa, curled on her side, skin flushed deep pink, hair plastered damp against her forehead. A throw blanket is bunched uselessly near her knees, her white T-shirt plastered to her skin. I can clearly see the outline of her pink nipples through the fabric.
Her breathing is uneven, catching in soft, broken sounds that make my chest ache.
One hand is on her throat. The other is tucked between her legs.
My stomach drops.
“Holy fuck,” I whisper, and turn away immediately, heart slamming against my ribs. “I’m sorry,” I say, facing the wall, eyes fixed on a crooked picture frame. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Damon.”
Hearing her say my name makes me freeze.
“Help me,” she whispers.
Everything inside me goes taut.
I stay turned away, hands lifted like I’m surrendering. My skin feels too tight, like my uniform is suddenly several sizes too small. I force myself to breathe, slow and controlled, even as my instincts scream.
“I’m here,” I tell her. “Can you stand?”
“No. I’ve tried.” Her voice is all scratchy.
I shrug out of my jacket and toss it behind me without looking. “Cover yourself if you can. I’m going to turn around in a second.”
There’s a soft movement. A shaky breath.
I count to three and turn.
Her eyes are half-lidded, glassy with need and confusion. Her lips are parted, swollen. She looks wrecked, like she has been fighting her own body and losing. Thistle sits beside her head, pressed close, tail wrapped around his paws, yellow-green eyes flicking between us.
I drop to one knee, keeping space between us. “Can you hear me?”
She nods, a small, jerky movement.
“Good,” I say. “I need you to stay with me. I’m going to ask you a question.”
Her gaze drifts, unfocused. She swallows hard. “I didn’t… I took my suppressants. I always do.”
That’s not what I wanted to ask, but at least I know that now.
She’s in heat.
“I know,” I say, because I do. Because Caroline doesn’t seem like the kind of person to forget such a thing. “This isn’t your fault.”
I glance around, taking in the room. Couch. Coffee table shoved aside. My chest tightens again.
“I’m going to help you sit up,” I say. “I won’t touch you anywhere you don’t tell me to. Okay?”
Another nod.
I carefully slide my hands under her shoulders. Her skin is hot through the thin fabric of her shirt, heat radiating off her in waves. My jaw clenches. I focus on the task, on keeping her upright, on not thinking about the way her scent wraps around me.
She whimpers softly when she shifts, fingers curling into my sleeve. I still.
“I have you,” I tell her. “I’m right here.”
She leans into me, forehead pressing against my chest. Her breathing stutters again, and I can feel the tremor in her body, the way she shakes like she’s cold even though she’s burning up.
I reach for the blanket and drape it over her, creating a barrier. It helps a little. It gives my hands something to do besides curl into fists.
“Listen to me,” I say. “I’m going to call June. And the clinic. We will figure this out.”
Her fingers tighten. “Please don’t leave.”
“I’m not leaving,” I repeat. “I promise.”
Thistle headbutts my knee like he is seconding the vow.
I stay there breathing through the pull in my chest, the pressure in my veins, the instinct that wants too much. I’m an Alpha. I’m the sheriff, and I have control over this. I have control over my own body.
I’m not crossing a line.
Not today. Not ever.
“I’m here,” I tell her again, softer this time. I try to ignore the way my cock is pressing to the seams of my pants. This is just my body reacting to an Omega in heat. That’s all.
“We’re going to get you help,” I tell her.