Page 55 of Specter Bred

That was when I realized the problem.

I rarely had visitors, so the only chair in the room was mine, tucked behind the desk. Archer glanced toward it but made no move to sit, apparently deciding that making herself at home behind her superior instructor’s desk was a line even she wasn’t willing to cross.

Straightening with the medical kit in hand, I crossed back to the desk and shoved a stack of paperwork aside, clearing enough space for her to sit.

“There,” I said, jerking my chin toward the empty spot.

Archer looked at the desk, then at me, but didn’t move. Her mouth tightened slightly, as if sitting on her superior instructor’s desk somehow felt more inappropriate than half the shit she’d pulled since arriving at Fairfield.

I sighed. “I’ll have an easier time stitching you up if I can actually fucking see what I’m doing.”

I reached over and angled my desk lamp toward the space I’d cleared, flooding it with light.

That finally got her moving. She climbed onto the edge without another argument, her boots hanging just above the floor while I set the medical kit beside her.

At first, putting her on the desk had seemed like the most practical solution.

Then I dragged my chair in front of her, sat down, and immediately realized I hadn’t thought the position through nearly as well as I should have.

There wasn’t enough room to get close to her injured arm without rolling my chair between her knees. Archer seemed to realize the same thing. Her legs widened to make room for me, carefully angling away as if she could keep from brushing against mine.

She couldn’t.

My knees slid beneath the desk between hers, the outside of my thighs grazing the inside of her legs despite her attempt to give me space.

Fuck.

I did my best to ignore our proximity and reached for her wrist, turning her arm beneath the desk lamp so I could inspect the wound. The second my fingers settled against the inside of her forearm, her pulse fluttered rapidly beneath my fingertips.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one suddenly aware of how fucking close we were. My fingers moved slowly, gliding along her forearm.

Her pulse beat faster.

And once I noticed it, every one of my senses seemed to lock onto her.

I could feel the rapid beat of her pulse beneath my fingertips, quick and uneven, keeping time with the shallow rise and fall of her chest. Her scent was stronger this close, too. Sweat and adrenaline tangled with that sharp female alpha scent that always carried a bite to it, except now there was something warmer threaded beneath it. Something that made my fingers tighten around her wrist before I caught myself.

I was suddenly far too aware of everything. The warmth of her skin beneath my hand, the press of her legs against the outside of mine, and the few inches separating her body from my chest every time I leaned closer to inspect her arm.

Judging by the pulse still racing beneath my fingertips, Archer was just as fucking aware of me.

She shifted on the desk, adjusting her weight, and her thighs tightened slightly around the outside of mine. The movement brought her closer, the warmth of her legs pressing against mine before she seemed to realize what she’d done.

Her breath caught.

I heard it. Of course I heard it.

That was the problem with alphas. We noticed everything. The quickening of a pulse beneath our fingers, the slightest hitch in someone’s breathing, the subtle change in their scent when awareness turned into something else.

And Archer was giving away far more than she probably realized.

I wasn’t about to make the same mistake.

I kept my breathing even and my expression blank as I focused on cleaning the wound, refusing to acknowledge the heat crawling beneath my skin or the fact that every one of my senses had narrowed down to the woman sitting in front of me.

She could react to me all she wanted.

She didn’t need to know I was reacting right back.