Chapter Eighteen
My drive home in Connor’s car is a blur. I enter the apartment and strip, immediately throwing Connor’s clothes in the wash along with two cups of descenter. The action feels like severing a limb.
I dress in one of my favorite sleep tees.
My forehead is fever-hot, and I’m alternating between anxiously pacing my bedroom and fussing with my bedding and pillows.
Fighting the urge to nest is pointless. My heat is here, and I’m woefully unprepared.
All that’s in my fridge is two bottled waters, a wrinkly apple, and an assortment of condiments.
I haven’t bought any of the toys Dr. Kanata recommended if I tried to go it alone.
I can have items rush-delivered, but what if an alpha delivers them?
I’m spiraling. Anxiety eats through my stomach, and I tie my hair up in a clip to keep it off my sweaty neck.
I’m digging through the pile of bills and school notes on my desk, looking for the heat center pamphlets Kanata gave me, when I hear the familiar purr of Mac’s Miata pulling into my driveway.
Connor probably sent him to fetch his keys, and I need to hand them over before my heat begins in earnest.
I open my door before he can knock, planning to set the keys on my welcome mat and avoid the questioning about why I smell like his son.
Then I freeze.
Connor is striding toward my apartment. His hair sticks out in multiple directions, and he’s wearing the sweats he slept in last night. His scent is chaotic bliss.
He reaches me and spreads his arms across my doorway, panting as he leans toward me.
His eyes trail down my body, and his scent spikes, pheromones flaring. My thighs are already damp with slick, and his presence isn’t helping matters.
I tremble beneath his gaze. I can’t help it. My entire system is in overdrive. I’m so over-sensitized, the hair on the back of my arms is standing up.
Then Connor’s eyes hang on my chest, utterly arrested. There’s an audible swallow.
“Where’d you get that shirt?” His voice is hoarse. He almost sounds scared.
I glance down.
Oh, fuck.
My comfort shirt. The one I’ve often worn in times of distress over the past three years. That I pulled out of my drawer when I got home without thinking. My little guilty secret.
It’s Connor’s, from the ceremony.
The one thing I let myself have of him. It doesn’t smell like him anymore, though sometimes I think I catch phantom flickers of his scent from that ill-fated night.
Like when a stranger passes you on the street and you catch a faint whiff of enticing perfume before they disappear forever, leaving you with little more than a memory.
His eyes drop to my crotch and blow wide.
My belly cramps in response, more slick sliding between my thighs. I don’t have on any underwear beneath the oversized t-shirt. They’d only get ruined. And the suppressants are well and truly out of my system now, so the scent is undiluted.
I see the moment he realizes play out across his face. A kaleidoscope of longing, pain, and confusion.
“Holy fuck. It’s you .”