Chapter 15
Jasper
Ican't sleep. It's past midnight, and I'm in the garage, aggressively sanding down a piece of oak that doesn't need sanding. But I need the repetitive motion, the physical exertion, something to burn off the frustrated energy coursing through my veins.
When that doesn't work, I move to the kitchen, figuring I might as well finish installing the under-cabinet lighting I've been putting off. Anything to keep my hands busy, my mind occupied with something other than Rowan.
Rowan and her scent that's been driving me slowly insane. Rowan and the way she looked at me in the garage earlier today. Rowan and how close I came to kissing her.
I slam a cabinet door harder than necessary, wincing at the sound in the quiet house. This is exactly what I was afraid would happen when Theo first suggested renting out the room.
Exactly why I insisted on no omegas.
Because once an omega gets under your skin, they're impossible to ignore. I learned that lesson the hard way with Julia.
The kitchen light flicks on, and I tense, already knowing who it is before I turn around. Her scent reaches me first—honey and milk, sweet and warm, with that undercurrent of something spicy that's uniquely Rowan.
"Can't sleep either?" she asks, hovering in the doorway. She's wearing sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt, her curls loose around her shoulders. She looks soft, rumpled, achingly beautiful.
I grunt noncommittally, turning back to the cabinet.
"I brought a peace offering," she continues, undeterred by my lack of response. She sets a mug on the counter beside me. "Coffee. Black, two sugars. That's how you take it, right?"
It is. The fact that she's noticed, remembered, shouldn't matter. But it does.
"Thanks," I say gruffly, not looking at her.
She doesn't leave. Instead, she leans against the counter, watching me work with those observant eyes of hers. "Need a hand?"
"It's late. You should be sleeping."
"So should you," she counters. "But here we are."
Here we are indeed. Alone in the kitchen at one in the morning, the rest of the house silent, the air between us charged with everything we're not saying.
I take a sip of the coffee, buying myself time to get my thoughts in order. It's perfect—strong and sweet, exactly how I like it.
"About earlier," she starts, and I tense all over again. "In the garage—"
"Nothing happened," I interrupt, harsher than I intended. "Let's leave it at that."
She flinches slightly, but her chin comes up with that stubborn tilt I've come to recognize.
"Fine. We'll pretend nothing happened. Can I still help, or is the silent treatment part of this arrangement?"
I should say no. Send her back upstairs, put as much distance between us as possible.
Instead, I hand her a screwdriver. "Hold the bracket in place while I attach it."
She takes it with a small, surprised smile that makes something in my chest twist uncomfortably. We work in silence after that, falling into the same easy rhythm we found in the garage. It's a simple task—installing LED strips under the cabinets—but having her there makes it go faster, smoother.
When she leans in to help position a strip, her shoulder brushes against mine, and I have to clench my jaw against the rush of awareness that follows.
She smells incredible, especially this close.
The blockers she uses are still there, but they're less effective now, barely containing the omega notes that grow stronger each day.
"Hold this," I instruct, passing her the end of the LED strip. Our fingers brush, and I pull back quickly, ignoring the static-like tingle that races up my arm.
She positions the strip carefully, stretching up on her toes to reach. The movement causes her shirt to ride up, revealing a sliver of pale skin at her lower back. I force my eyes away, focusing with unnecessary intensity on the wiring in my hands.
"Like this?" she asks, glancing over her shoulder at me.
I nod, not trusting my voice. She turns back to the task, and I allow myself one fleeting look at the graceful line of her neck, the soft curve of her cheek in profile, her beautiful skin.
This is torture. Self-inflicted, unnecessary torture.
We finish the first cabinet, and I step back to check the placement. "Looks good," I say, my voice rougher than usual. "Let's do the next one."
She follows me to the next section, and we repeat the process. Me holding the strip, her securing it with the mounting clips. But this time when she stretches up, she wobbles slightly, losing her balance. I reach out instinctively, catching her waist to steady her.
My hands burn where they touch her, even through the thin fabric of her shirt. She stills, not pulling away, and for a moment we're frozen like that—her back to my front, my hands on her waist, her warmth seeping into me.
And then she turns, slowly, still within the circle of my arms.
"Jasper," she says, my name barely more than a whisper on her lips.
She's so close. Close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, the light dusting of freckles across her nose, the deep pink of her lower lip that tells me she's been worrying it with her teeth when she's thinking.
Close enough that her scent surrounds me, envelops me, clouding my judgment and weakening my resolve.
Her scent. God, her scent. It hits me full force now, stronger and sweeter than it's ever been. Pure omega, calling to something primal and possessive deep in my core.
Before I can stop myself, I grab her wrist, feeling her pulse race beneath my fingers. I search her face, looking for... what? Fear? Disgust? Anything that would give me a reason to step away, to maintain the careful distance I've insisted on since she arrived.
But all I see is the same confusion and the same desire that's tearing me apart.
"What are you doing to me?" I ask, echoing my words from earlier, but this time there's no anger in them. Just genuine bewilderment at how thoroughly she's dismantled my defenses.
"I don't know," she answers honestly, her voice small. "I don't understand any of this."
"Me neither," I admit. And it's true. I don't understand why her scent affects me so strongly, why the thought of her leaving in two weeks makes my chest ache, why I can't seem to keep my walls up around her no matter how hard I try.
All I know is that I'm tired of fighting it.
I slam my lips against hers.
I’m not gentle. I'm not careful. I’m rough and desperate and hungry, all the frustration and desire I've been tamping down for weeks pouring into the press of my lips against hers. I expect her to push me away, to come to her senses and realize what a mistake this is.
Instead, she makes a small, needy sound against my mouth and kisses me back with equal fervor, her hands fisting in my shirt to pull me closer.
I back her against the counter, lifting her easily to sit on the edge, stepping between her thighs. Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me in, and I groan at the contact. My hands slide under her shirt, finding warm, soft brown skin that feels like heaven beneath my callused palms.
She gasps when I trail kisses down her neck, nipping gently at the sensitive spot just below her ear.
Her scent spikes sharply, filling the kitchen with sweetness so intense it makes my head spin.
My alpha instincts roar to life—claim, mark, mine—but I force them down, clinging to the last shreds of my self-control.
"Jasper," she breathes, and the sound of my name on her lips nearly undoes me.
I capture her mouth again, one hand tangling in her hair while the other slides down her side, her hip, the bare skin of her thigh.
She arches against me, her body seeking more contact, more friction.
I slip my hand beneath the waistband of her shorts, and she whimpers, a sound so needy and desperate it makes my blood burn.
The loud crash of breaking glass shatters the moment.
We jerk apart, breathing hard, to find Gerald sitting innocently on the counter beside an overturned bottle of olive oil—now shattered on the floor, the oil slowly spreading across the tile.
Reality comes crashing back with brutal force. What the hell am I doing? This is exactly the kind of complication I've been trying so hard to avoid. The exact reason we established boundaries in the first place.
I step back, running a shaking hand through my hair. "Shit. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—that was—"
I can't even form a coherent sentence, my mind still clouded with her scent, my body still humming with want.
Rowan slides off the counter, her eyes wide, her lips swollen from my kisses. She looks dazed, confused, and so beautiful it physically hurts to look at her.
"Jasper," she starts, reaching for me.
I take another step back, needing distance, needing clarity. "I'm sorry," I repeat, the words inadequate but all I can offer. "That was a mistake. It can't happen again."
Hurt flashes across her face, quickly masked. "A mistake," she echoes, her voice flat.
"We have two weeks left," I remind her, remind myself. "Then you're gone. This—whatever this is—it just complicates things."
"Right," she says, wrapping her arms around herself. "Complications. I forgot that's all I am to you."
"That's not what I meant," I protest, but it's weak and we both know it.
She bends down to scoop up Gerald, who's looking far too pleased with himself for a cat who just destroyed a moment of insanity. "I should go to bed. Early shift tomorrow."
"Rowan—"
"It's fine," she cuts me off. "You're right. It was a mistake. Won't happen again."
She walks out without looking back, leaving me alone in the kitchen with the scent of olive oil and broken glass and her—still lingering in the air, on my skin, driving me slowly mad.
I slam my fist against the counter, welcoming the pain that shoots through my hand. What the hell was I thinking? Kissing her, touching her, nearly taking her right there in the kitchen like some animal unable to control its baser instincts.
This is exactly why I don't trust myself around omegas. Why I built walls so high and so thick after Julia left. Because once you let them in, they destroy everything—your control, your judgment, your heart.
And Rowan, with her stubborn determination and dry humor and the way she looks at me like she actually sees me, not just the grumpy alpha exterior I present to the world...
Rowan could destroy me completely, if I let her.
I clean up the broken glass on autopilot, my mind still replaying the kiss, the feel of her against me, the sound of my name on her lips. By the time I finish, it's nearly three in the morning, and I'm no closer to figuring out what to do.
Two weeks. We just need to get through two more weeks, and then she'll be gone. Out of our house, out of our lives. Things will go back to normal—me and Theo and Wells, and the comfortable routine we've built.
So why does the thought fill me with a nameless dread instead of relief?
I head up to my room, knowing sleep will be even more elusive now than it was before. As I pass Rowan's door, I pause, pressing my palm flat against the wood. On the other side, just a few feet away, she's probably lying awake too. Thinking about the kiss. About me.
About what might have happened if Gerald hadn't intervened.
I force myself to keep walking, to close my bedroom door behind me, to lie down on my bed and stare at the ceiling.
Two weeks. I can maintain control for two weeks.
I have to.