Page 254

That’s where I should have stopped. Pumped the brakes. At the very least, been self-aware enough to realize that continuing to sneak behind my pack’s backs to comfort the Omega was something I shouldn’t be considering.

But because I’m me, and I apparently have the self-control of a fucking frat boy who just discovered kegstands, I allowed my stream-of-consciousness to take a left turn to Inner Caveman City.

Now I’m picturing the Omega tangled in my sheets, her wrists in my hands, her mouth open and back arching as she gasps my name. I imagine the way she’d fit against me, her soft skin slick and hot with sweat against mine, and the way her pulse would feel when my fingers flex around her neck just enough to make her Omega whine in need.

I’m not even simply fantasizing about having her. I’m fantasizing about keeping her. Keeping her pinned beneath me, panting and marked and dripping in my scent and both our arousal. Marked and screaming and shaking and begging me for more, faster, harder⁠—

I growl, forcing my eyes back on the page. This is ridiculous. I’m a walking HR violation at this point. I need to focus on the words. On the book. Not on the girl.

Not on her throat or her knees or⁠—

Out of the corner of my eye, Idril shifts. Like she can feel me looking at her, she glances to the side, and her gaze slams into mine.

I should look away. Force my attention on anything that’s not her.

I don’t.

I hold her stare steadily, my own full of feral-longing. My heart’s racing, my breath coming in shallow, barely-there pants.

I know—I Fatesdamned know—that I’m broadcasting my desire and need, but right at this moment I don’t care.

Because she’s not looking away.

Her lips part. Her pupils dilate. At first, I think I’m imagining it, but—no.

Her breath catches, the sound barely audible across the six feet separating us. My body is tense, muscles coiled tight.

For a single heartbeat, I imagine her running.

I imagine the chase.

Riven coughs, and the sound rips us both out of the moment. I watch in real time as confusion replaces the interest in Idril’s eyes, and my own drop back to the page with a violent lurch.

Fuck.

After a long few minutes of talking myself down and begging my cock to fucking relax, the words on the page eventually come into focus once more.

Rumplestiltskin.

I snort. I would gladly give that asshole my firstborn if he’d spin these traitorous thoughts out of my fucking head.

Sighing, I let my head fall back and stare at the eaves of the ceiling, wondering what the hell is wrong with me. Maybe I need to talk to Dax instead of hoping this shit will eventually stop on its own.

A sudden shout has my head snapping across the room to see Dax aggressively pointing at a page in a book sitting open on his lap. Riven snatches the book and holds it to his chest like he’s protecting the damn thing from Dax’s tirade.

Even Idril, who hasn’t looked up from her paperwork once in the last few hours outside of our brief interaction, is frowning at the scene in curiosity.

I sigh and stand up, resigning myself to having to break up whatever argument is brewing.

“This one is different, Dax. I’m telling you. This part isn’t in the original story.” “It is the same bullshit story that’s in all these books,” Dax argues. “Every Irish Folklore collection includes it.”

”What story?” I interrupt. “The one with the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? I love that one. Oh!” I gasp. “Is the rainbow the gate?”

“If it were, I’d have thrown your ass through it already and let the leprechauns deal with you,” Dax mutters. “It’s The Song of Light, and it’s just another fairytale. We’ve already seen it in at least ten iterations.”

Riven plants his hands on his hips. “It’s called Amhrán an Solais—Which, yes, loosely translates to The Song of Light. And Dax is also correct that it’s a well-known folktale about a girl who teaches the four elements to live in harmony, bringing balance to day and night, etcetera. But—” he glares at Daxen. “This one has another verse. Written in the margins. In fucking Irish Gaelic, which I could translate if you assholes would just shut up for thirty seconds.”

“It’s a waste of time. It’s probably some old grandma’s knitting patterns, or passive-aggressive notes about her daughter-in-law. I want to finish that book so I can move on to the next one,” he complains, but his argument is losing steam.