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Mean.
Terrifying.
Until he goes to his knees.
Just—thunk.
His whole big body crumbles down, prostrate on the linoleum. His head falls forward, far enough for me to see that his ink extends over both cut shoulders and all the way down his back. Dizzying patterns expand and contract while he breathes deeply, his body armored by plates of muscle.
Muscle and ink.
And the scent of jasmine.
My Omega chose it for reasons she currently cannot or will not explain. I allowed it because, well, I didn’t imagine an alpha who smelled so floral could ever be so scary.
The scent is infinitely better in person. Warm jasmine—spicy but, somehow, petal-soft. Layered over the richest, deepest amber. Then there’s a smoky quality woven through it, one that feels almost holy. Woody and sweet, like sacred spaces and quiet reverence.
Frankincense.
The tickle of it strokes the back of my throat and pricks my nipples. Fresh slick douses my non-existent panties. An empty punch of pain clenches my pussy.
Inky Alpha raises his eyes to mine. They’re so pale. The lightest blue. And the look in them only tightens the cramps in my core. A pitiful whine gets lost somewhere in my clogged throat.
He lumbers to his feet slowly, his gaze never wavering. The blue burns—white fire snapping in his irises while he takes four long-legged strides to reach the table I’m perched on.
Is he going to bite me now?
Will I have to feel all of his shame and regret, too?
A bruised, tattooed hand flies up. After years of taking blows, my whole body ducks reflexively. I shake so hard that the tears clinging to my lashes quiver down my cheeks and soak into my shoulder while I cower.
But his tattooed fingers don’t close over my wrist or tear at my hair. They brush the tear tracks off my face before molding around my jaw, his touch so light and gentle, it doesn’t feel real.
“Hey,” he says.
My lips roll together as I blink, dizzy with the scent rising off his hot, inked-up chest. The alpha lifts my face, straightening my spine. He stares, unshakable.
“No one’s going to hurt you ever again.” His ghostly blue gaze spears right into my soul while he grits, “Never. Again. Do you understand?”
More than that, I believe. The weight in his light eyes sinks right into me. A steadying pulse of solid trust.
Oh, I realize. That’s why.
The tattooed alpha only drops my gaze long enough to peer down at the small pile of clothing Dr. Monroe left next to me. He reaches in and plucks out a worn black hoodie that, judging from the scent, belongs to him.
“Put this shit on,” he says. “You’re cold.”
That’s rich, coming from him and all his nude nakedness. When he catches my eyes flickering to his chest, something almost like amusement touches his sculpted mouth. “Cold doesn’t bother me. Do I look like a pussy to you?”
It’s such a stupid boy thing to say. I glower before my brain can communicate that maybe it isn’t such a good idea to antagonize the beat-up, muscle-bound alpha.
But he likes it.
The tiny hint of amusement lurking in his features suddenly flashes into a wild grin. “You have claws hidden, huh, kitten?” His eyes lock onto mine again, pale blue flames sinking and singeing. “I like claws.”
For half a second, I’m almost… happy? Well, not miserable, anyway. In reply, the dread dragging through my guts dissipates a bit. Curious relief prickles in its place.
The tattooed alpha is still holding out his hoodie. A pissy part of me—the part with claws—wants to shove it back at him on principle.
