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I have no idea what the point is, but I’m making it.
The truth is, my mouth’s like a desert, my thighs are stuck to this chair like it’s trying to absorb me, and my whole body still feels like someone left it on vibrate.
Because yeah - newsflash: I’m not done. My heat? Still here. Just... lurking.
Like a raccoon in the attic - not actively trashing the place, but definitely scratching at the walls from time to time.
Every few seconds, it pulses. That low, traitorous throb between my thighs. A slick little whisper that says:Not done. Not close.
Nice toast, though.
Theo hums to himself at the stove like we’re not sitting in the aftermath of multiple orgasms and mild emotional collapse. Kai’s draped over one of the kitchen chairs, spinning a pear like it owes him money. Ash is in the corner, radiating quiet menace, holding his coffee like he’s already decided who’s getting ejected from the house next.
It’s surreal. Like breakfast with three very attractive, barely housebroken wolves.
Theo slides a plate to Ash. Doesn’t say a word. Kai flicks a blueberry at Ash’s head like it’s a challenge. Ash eats it without blinking.
I chew my toast a little slower.
I try -try- to ignore the way the seat is suddenly way too hard. How my skin feels too tight. How my body keeps doing that restless, fidgety shift like it’s trying to get comfortable on a chair built by satan himself.
Still in control. Still functional.
Still wearing Kai’s hoodie like it’s armor made of smirking testosterone.
But I’m also... notnotstaring at the door.
Like a sixth sense, it happens; and when the air in the room dips, like someone turned down the dial on reality itself, I don’t have to look.
Iknow.
Lucian.
He enters like something out of a noir film and a military-grade fantasy; all stormcloud energy and unfair bone structure, dark jacket perfectly pressed, hair probably scared of disappointing him.
The air rearranges around him like he’s allergic to relaxation.
His scent hits me then. Dark, cool, sharp fruit with a hint of rage-scented cologne. Like blackberry and disapproval.
It’s unforgiving and arousing in a way that makes me want to roll my eyes and groan at the same time, and my thighs press together automatically.
Rude.
He doesn’t say anything - just scans the room like he’s evaluating which one of them is about to get court-martialed for breathing near me.
Then his gaze lands on me, and stays there.
I feel it. In my chest. In my core. In my goddamn kneecaps.
And just like that, the fragile peace I’d constructed - toast, hoodie, minimal shame - shatters like a cheap wine glass in a frat house.
Because I’m not ready for him. Not at all.
But apparently, my heat doesn’t care.
It sees Lucian Vale and goes:That one. Yes. Ruin me, Daddy Alpha.
And I?
