Page 25 of Wolf It Down, Knot Me Up

Three scent matches.

Fuck.

7

LUCY

“Okay,” I say to the universe. “Point made. You can quit anytime.”

I’ve been flat on my back for two hours in a tank top and shorts, quilt kicked off the end of the bed, window shut, and the rest of me is running as if I fell asleep against a woodstove.

Every time I close my eyes, I view a slideshow.

Grayson in that hallway, pressing me backward against the wall, asking whether I feel it too, and me not pulling away. Roman at the woodpile with his shirt off and water running down his chest. Wolf finding me in the ferns like a raccoon in a trash can, flirting with me, driving me wild.

I flip the pillow, but the cool side barely does anything, and my bite mark is throbbing again.

I lift my hand into the wash of moonlight coming through the window, pale in all that blue, the bandage a reminder of the trouble that started all of this. “I’d like it on the record that at no point did I sign up for this.”

Scent matches happen. It’s not that common, so when it does occur, it’s a big deal.

And right now, I crave Roman, which makes me long for the other two men as well. The sensation is already pouring his feelings into me like a busted faucet, which is the whole reason I’m awake at two in the morning.

I sit up and push my legs over the side of the bed. I’m on my feet and pacing from the door to the window.

To complete the bond, I have to bite Roman back. Otherwise, if we leave it open, it goes bad for both of us. Hurts like a bitch, and then one of us doesn’t come out of it. It leads to death, and that terrifies me.

I’ve heard of it happening. I rub the goose bumps out of my arms even as the heat within me is unbearable. Crossing the room, I shove the window open and lean out into it with my elbows on the sill. The cold finds me like a bucket of water, and I love it.

An owl calls twice, way out, and gets an answer from farther off.

The property lights burn all night, just how Grandma always had it when I was growing up. The lamp over the front steps, two along the path, one on the pole down by the guest cabins. She’ll tell you it’s for guests, and it is, but it’s also so that anyone who comes up that road at midnight can see there are people home. But mostly it’s so you can look before you go out and see what’s already standing there.

Past the lamps, the forest is pitch black. You could put your arm in up to the elbow and lose the limb.

Right then, at the edge of the woods where the last of the light gives way to shadow, something moves.

I freeze on the spot, my pulse suddenly racing faster.

Then a figure steps out from between two towering pines, strong shoulders emerging first, then the familiar outline of a man I know far better than I should after only one day.

It’s Roman.

My heart slams against my ribs at seeing him. What’s he doing out there?

He’s looking toward the lodge, at my window. Does this mean he couldn’t sleep either? Somehow, that thought unsettles me more than finding him outside in the first place.

Because I’m standing here for exactly the same reason.

He suddenly lowers his gaze, as though finally deciding this is a mistake, and turns toward the trees.

“Roman, wait,” I call out so abruptly that I surprise myself.

He stops, turns back, but says nothing.

“I’m coming down,” I say. I don’t give him a chance to answer, as I’m already on the move.

Jeans hauled on over my sleep shorts, hopping on one leg. Hoodie over the tank top. Sneakers, laces flapping. Down the stairs with my hand skimming the rail, into the great room, where the fire has gone out.