Chapter 8
Victor’s house still smelled of lavender and that subtle underlying spice that Chloe was sure belonged to him.
She’d arrived ten minutes early for her Thursday evening appointment, which meant she had plenty of time to sit in one of the old-fashioned chairs and pretend to read a parenting magazine while her heart attempted to beat its way out of her chest.
This is ridiculous, she told herself. He’s your doctor.
Except he wasn’t just her doctor. He was the male who’d carried her out of the basement as if she were made of glass.
He was the male who’d growled at a werewolf for flirting with her.
The male whose eyes had flashed green with possessive fury.
The male whose cheek had been warm under her lips when she’d kissed him.
She touched her fingers to her mouth, remembering the kiss, replaying as she had every day since then.
Every day and most nights, when her dreams had gone far beyond the brush of her lips against his cheek.
She’d acted on impulse—something the old Chloe would never have done.
The old Chloe had been quiet, careful, anxious to avoid conflict or disappointment.
But the old Chloe had also stayed with Travis far longer than she should have, ignoring the red flags and swallowing her hurt because making waves seemed worse than being unhappy.
The new Chloe—the one who’d packed her car and driven to a town full of monsters to start over—was determined to trust her instincts.
And her instincts said that Victor Jackson, for all his rigid control and careful distance, was a good male.
A lonely male. A male who needed someone to see past the walls he’d built. Someone like me.
“Miss Bennington?” Petal appeared in the doorway, clipboard in hand. The brownie wore a sweater covered in dancing acorns today, her dark hair twisted into an elaborate braid. “The doctor’s ready for you.”
Her stomach did a complicated flip as she followed Petal down the hallway to the exam room.
She told herself she knew what to expect.
She knew that he would be professional and thorough.
She knew that his hands would be gentle when he checked her blood pressure and his voice would soften when he asked about the baby.
But as soon as she stepped into his office and their eyes met, she forgot how to breathe.
He wore dark trousers and a pale blue shirt that brought out the color of his eyes—at least one of the colors of his eyes. When their eyes met, his flared green for one brief, incendiary moment before he looked down at the chart in his hands.
“Miss Bennington,” he said coolly. “How are you feeling?”
Like I want to kiss you again, she thought.
“Good,” she said instead. “The baby’s been moving quite a lot”
Something flickered in his expression that she couldn’t read—pleasure, maybe, or relief. “That’s excellent. Right on schedule.” He set the chart down and gestured to the table. “Let’s take a look.”
She settled herself on the examination table, watching him wash his hands at the small sink. The last rays of sunlight slanting through the window turned his hair to gold, and she caught herself staring at the strong line of his jaw, the elegant shape of his hands.
Stop it, she told herself firmly. I’m here for prenatal care, not to ogle my doctor.
But when his fingers brushed her arm as he positioned the blood pressure cuff, her pulse jumped. He noticed. His eyes flicked to the monitor, then to her face.
“Elevated,” he murmured. “Are you feeling anxious?”
Only about you.
“Just the usual pregnancy excitement,” she said, trying to sound relaxed. “It’s starting to feel real.”
The look he gave her was unreadable. “Good.”
He did the rest of the exam with his usual detached professionalism, but the air between them hummed with unspoken words.
She was acutely aware of his scent, of his height and strength, of the careful restraint in every movement.
And she was equally aware that beneath that restraint, something wild and dangerous waited.
She found herself wanting to see it, wanting to see what happened when Victor Jackson lost control. And that, she knew, was madness.
“Your blood pressure is good,” he said, finally stepping back. “The baby’s heartbeat is strong. Everything looks perfect. Your back hasn’t given you any more trouble?”
The memory of his hands on her skin sent a flush of warmth through her. “No. Just a little stiffness now and then. Since there aren’t any massage therapists in Fairhaven Falls, I’ve been trying not to overdo it.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “And you’re still in the basement?”
“It’s a big job,” she said carefully. “But I’m being careful. Taking breaks. Not reaching overhead.” She gave him a small smile. “I promise.”
His gaze held hers for a long moment, and she saw the conflict there. The doctor who wanted to lecture her versus the male who wanted to lock her in a padded room for her own safety.
“Good,” he finally said, the word clipped, and continued with the exam.
He conducted it with the same quiet efficiency she remembered—checking her reflexes, listening to her heart, and asking questions about sleep and diet and stress levels.
But every touch lingered a fraction too long.
Every time their eyes met, heat sparked in the space between them.
By the time he finished, heat pooled low in her belly and her breasts ached.
She was so focused on not squirming that she almost jumped when he spoke again.
“Everything looks good,” he said at last, making a final notation. “I don’t believe we need to do an ultrasound this time.”
She couldn’t help feeling a slight pang of disappointment, but she nodded obediently.
“If you’re sure.”
“Yes. The baby is developing well, and you’re—” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice had dropped lower. “You’re doing an excellent job taking care of yourself and the baby.”
She sat up slowly and slid off the table, suddenly aware of how close they were standing. “I have an excellent medical team.”
Their eyes met and held, and the air between them felt charged with electricity. She could see his pulse jumping in his throat and hear the slight hitch in his breathing. His eyes had darkened, and for a moment she thought she saw that flash of green again.
“Miss Bennington.” His voice had gone hoarse. “I should—”
“Of course.” She took a step back, smoothing her sweater down. “I didn’t mean to keep you.”
“You’re not—” He stopped himself, his jaw clenching. “I’ll walk you out.”
They walked through the quiet clinic in silence.
Petal had already gone home for the evening—it was nearly six o’clock, and he’d stayed late to accommodate her work schedule at the archives.
The hallway felt intimate in the dimming light, their footsteps the only sound.
He helped her on with her coat and she shivered when he gently lifted her hair free of the collar.
He held the door open for her, and was escorting her silently down the steps when something brushed her cheek.
She stopped and looked up. The first snow of the season drifted down from a charcoal-grey sky, delicate flakes catching the light from the street lamps.
It wasn’t heavy yet—just a dusting that turned the street into something out of a storybook.
“It’s beautiful,” she breathed as snowflakes landed on her cheeks, cold and perfect. She laughed, tipping her face up to the sky, and for a moment the loneliness that had dogged her for months simply… disappeared, replaced by the wonder and delight of a single perfect moment.
When she looked at Victor, he was staring at her with such naked longing that her heart stuttered.
“Chloe.” Her name was barely a whisper, but it seemed to vibrate through her body. His hand rose, trembling slightly, and brushed a snowflake from her cheek. His fingers lingered, warm against her cold skin, and she found herself leaning into the touch.
“I shouldn’t,” he said, but his hand stayed where it was, cradling her face.
“Shouldn’t what?”
“Want you. You’re my patient. You’re pregnant. You’re—”
“Here,” Chloe finished softly. “I’m right here.”
Something broke in his expression and suddenly his mouth was on hers.
The kiss was nothing like the chaste peck on the cheek she’d given him.
This was heat and hunger, desperate and consuming.
He kissed her as if he’d been starving for her, like she was air and he’d been drowning, and she melted into him with a small sound of surrender.
His hands came up to frame her face, gentle despite the intensity of the kiss.
Big hands, she noticed dimly, bigger than they’d been a moment ago, but strong and careful.
She gripped his shirt, pulling him closer, and he made a sound deep in his chest—half-growl, half-groan.
The vibration traveled through her, sparking heat in her belly.
The world fell away. There was only the soft fall of snow, the warmth of his mouth, and the solid, muscular body pressed against hers.
She’d never been kissed like this. Travis’s kisses had been polished, precise, as choreographed as everything else about him.
This was wild and real and a little bit dangerous, and she wanted more.
She slid her hands up his chest, over the hard planes of his shoulders, and her fingers tangled in the thick hair at his nape.
He shuddered, his mouth opening over hers, his tongue sweeping in to taste and claim.
Victor, she wondered, or Hyde. The kiss was fierce and untamed, but she wasn’t afraid, she was more excited than she’d ever been in her life.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes blazed green in the gathering dark.
They stared at each other, both breathing hard. Snow continued to fall around them, dusting his blonde hair with white. His hands still cupped her face, and she could feel the tremor in them.
“I—” His voice cracked, and he released her abruptly, stepping back so fast he nearly stumbled. “I apologize. That was—”
“Don’t.” She reached for him, but he moved away, putting the width of the sidewalk between them.
“Completely inappropriate.” His professional mask slammed back into place, but his eyes still glowed green and his hands shook as he shoved them into his pockets. “You’re my patient. I had no right to—”
“It’s okay. I wanted—”
“Your car.” He cut her off, his voice going flat. “You need to get home before the roads get slippery.”
She wanted to argue—to reassure him that she’d been hoping he’d do exactly what he’d just done—but the look on his face, stark and haunted and terrified, stopped her.
“Okay,” she said quietly.
They walked to her car in silence. He opened the driver’s door for her with stiff courtesy, and she slid inside, her lips still tingling from his kiss.
“Drive carefully.” His knuckles were white where he gripped the door. “The snow will start to accumulate.”
“I’ll be fine.” She looked up at him. His eyes were still green, still wild. “Victor—”
“If the power goes out… if you need anything… Call me.” He rattled off a number. “That’s my personal cell, not the clinic.”
“Victor—”
“Just… call if you need me.” The words were gruff, but his eyes pleaded. “Please.”
“Victor—”
“I’m sorry,” he said again, and then he closed the door and stepped back into the shadows.
She started the engine, her hands shaking slightly. She couldn’t make out his body in the rearview mirror but she saw those eyes, still glowing green as he watched her drive away.