Page 11 of Pack Baby for the Silver Foxes

She lifted the whiskey again, and her hand shook harder.

“Hudson,” Lincoln said. “She’s an omega, and I think she’s going into her heat.”

“I know.”

“She’s too close. She shouldn’t be in a bar.”

“I know.”

“Look at her hands. They’re shaking.”

Heat rarely announces itself. It gathers like weather behind the bones. Temperature first, then the skin, then the scent, and then the body begins building an argument the mind never agreed to hear.

Mary pressed the napkin to the back of her neck.

The man in the shiny suit said something else and reached for her elbow.

She shifted away before he made contact.

Good girl. The thought arrived whole and unwelcome, and I set my glass down with far too much care.

Lincoln’s scent changed beside me, whiskey warming, rain going dark at the edges.

“Don’t,” I said.

His jaw set. “I didn’t move.”

“You were going to.”

“He was going to touch her.”

“She handled it.”

“For now.”

He was right, and I curled my fingers against my thigh. Every instinct I had was already halfway across the room, which was a good deal worse.

Mary said something to the man. He raised both hands, laughing, and she slid off the stool. For half a second, her knees nearly betrayed her. She caught the edge of the bar. The bartender’s head came up, and she gave him a smile, set cash beside the glass, and turned toward the elevators.

Lincoln stood. I looked at him.

“Bathroom,” he said.

“Lincoln.”

He looked down at me. “She’s going into heat alone in a hotel.”

“She may have someone upstairs.”

“Do you believe that?”

I didn’t. I believed she had a room key, too much pride, and quite possibly a terrible plan.

I stood. “We can’t frighten her,” I said.

“Obviously.”

“And we’re not following her.”