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With a small smile, I turn off his lights, pull his door shut, and start to turn back toward my half of the upstairs.
But a deep, feral snarl stops me cold.
What—
Unless some other alpha or a wild animal got in the house, it has to be Smith. Neither of the other scenarios seem likely, especially since I personally oversaw the installation of a new security system two days ago.
“S-Smith?” I squeak.
Another roar replies. A full-body shiver moves over me, peaking my nipples and sending a wet trickle down my thighs.
Seriously?! I think at my Omega. What is wrong with you?
She gives me a hard shove toward Smith’s bedroom—the double doors opposite the locked-up Omega Suite. Bitch, get in there!
I stumble forward, drawing closer just in time to catch a low, pained moan. The sound is softer than his usual voice; and something about that instantly makes me wetter.
Honeyed perfume swirls off of me while I press my ear against the door—and it opens.
I never curse. Not even in my own head.
But…
Fuck.
I am going to be homeless before the sun comes up, aren’t I?
Judging by the way Smith’s furious, dark eyes burn into my face? I should really go pack.
“Omega.”
He speaks, but the voice isn’t his. There’s no clipped formality or dry edge of disapproval. Instead, it’s quiet, layered with something rougher. Wild.
He’s also entirely naked.
Just… so naked.
Sprawled in an armchair off to the side of the cavernous room, the pack alpha is barely visible, save for some moonbeams and a slice of light coming from what must be his ensuite bathroom.
The glow of it is enough for me to see the way his brows furrow. His wide, white chest, heaving. And the unhinged look in his eye.
There are other things to see, of course. But I don’t let myself look, spinning around with an eek and throwing my hand over my eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” I babble, reverting to habits from work. “Sir. I’m sorry, Sir. I heard a noise and I?—”
His growl is low and long. The sort of sound a tiger would make from the shadows as it stalks its prey. “Say that again.”
Every hair on my body stands on end. I try to breathe, but the air is absolutely saturated with his rich bitterness. It spirals down into my lungs, but only leaves my chest tighter. My answer comes as another squeak.
“I heard?—”
“No.” His cool command is back, the rougher tone an undercurrent that makes my toes curl into his plush cream carpet. “The first part. What you call me.”
I realize what he means, nearly gasping. “…Sir?”
He shifts. Another low, tortured moan slips out of him. Then he bites out a hiss. “You need to leave. I can’t stay in control if you’re in here.”
The subtle emphasis implies that he was already fighting some urge back before I interrupted. But what could it be? And why? He doesn’t like me.
