Right now, she’s balanced on a knife edge. No one can know her wolf is male, but if she suppresses him, she’ll go moon mad or worse. With no money, where will she go on a full moon? The foothills? She’ll be easy prey to outcasts without a pack to protect her. She needs the rental we found. It’s close enough to town that the ferals steer clear, and far enough from pack territory that no one will catch her scent on the wind.
Of course, with Kennedy, her fear smells like anger. That’s, like, the first thing you learn about her. When I walked into our cabin, I had to breathe through my mouth. But then, after I showered and stole as much time as I could to collect myself, the stench was gone.
Kennedy and Killian were playing Cage Fight Takedown. I watched for a few seconds before I showed myself. Kennedy was sitting with one knee bent, her foot tucked under her butt like she does when she’s comfortable. Killian was leaning forward, fingers jamming the buttons, teeth clenched, intent on taking her down. He reminded me of Fallon, cussing under his breath when he missed a shot.
Maybe Killian is being nice as a tactic, luring me into a false sense of security so I let him do what he wants.
Which is?
My belly clenches, and my cheeks heat.
He wants to have sex. Mate me. Knot me. Make me have his babies.
That’s what all males want, right? Pups are a status guarantee. A male isn’t likely to hold his rank forever if he can’t prove his virility. There will be whispers. And then challenges.
Killian has never seemed the slightest bit concerned about his status, but folks change when they get older. And he did mention young. He stroked my belly.
I warm and tingle between my legs. I lengthen my stride, try to minimize the friction. It doesn’t help much. This better be normal dumb hormones and not heat. No bond, no heat, right? I feel like that was part of the deal, but my memory of the blackberry patch is hazy.
Regardless, I’m not having babies with Killian Kelly. I’m not going to let him touch me.
That’s exactly what I’m thinking when he lifts me up the steps to Tye’s cabin—without asking permission—and hustles me through the door.
Oh.
No.
That is foul.
The instant the air inside hits me, I sink into his side. It’s instinct. I try to breathe through my mouth, but it doesn’t help. I claw at my collar, strain my neck, but it’s no use. The smell is on my tongue, in my nose, my throat, my lungs. I retch.
“What is it, shy girl?” Killian curves his shoulder and leans down, blocking me from the males sprawled around the living room. His fingertips hover above my cheek, uncertain.
Tears stream down my face. “The air. It’s too—thick. I’m gonna be sick.”
I gulp down my spit, like that might get the nastiness out of my mouth, but all it does is roil my belly. This is awful. I press my nose into Killian’s shirt. It helps, but not enough. I’d run, but my legs are noodles, and I’m dizzy as hell.
“What’s the problem?” A gruff voice calls from across the room. It’s Dermot.
My stomach lurches. I’m going to throw up right here. I can’t even bolt for the bathroom. I’m stuck. “Can’t you smell it?”
“What do you mean?” He sniffs, darting out his tongue to taste the air. He smooths my shoulders, rubs my upper back.
It’s strange, him touching me like this in front of others, but I’m too nauseous to care. I plaster myself closer and screw my eyes shut, praying he does something, because I don’t know what’s happening to me, and I’m gonna hurl.
“Shit.” There’s panic in his voice. “Tell me what to do.”
I can’t. I can only shove my face into the seam where his bicep presses against his chest. He cradles me close. His wolf rumbles against my cheek.
A chair scrapes. Footsteps stomp across the room and a window is thrown open. Oh, thank Fate. A gust of blessed fresh air wafts in.
I blink and peek up. Dermot, the chief elder, is grinning at me as he drags a wooden dining room chair over to the window.
“Sit her there,” he tells Killian. “It’ll wear off.”
“What is it?” Killian asks as he leads me to the seat. My knees wobble.
I sink down, breathing deeper as the clean breeze sweeps the nastiness away. I lean on the window sill, stretching my head as far out as I can get it, like a dog in a car window.
“Too many unmated males, too far along in her heat. Their scent’s gonna make her sick.” Dermot slaps Killian’s back. “It’ll get better the more heats she has, the more you fuck her, get your scent in her. The first heats are the worst. It comes and goes. Drags on.” He smirks. “Enjoy it, my friend.”
Killian frowns. He’s still close, hovering. He touches my forehead like a dam checking her pup for fever.
“Open the other windows,” he says.
Folks scurry to follow his orders.
Dermot doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I’m not in heat. I remember heat; it’s seared into my muscle memory. It’s unadulterated misery. Mind controlling. Madness making. This is not that. This is a queasy stomach.
Thankfully, my insides are settling now, and I’m starting to feel ridiculous. I shrink in the hoodie, tug the zipper up as high as it’ll go. I’m not used to being the center of attention, and whenever I have been, it’s not been a good scene.
Killian’s hand wanders down and unzips the hoodie to my cleavage. He slides his finger up, lightly, very casually arranging the neckline so my neck shows. So everyone can see his bite.
He wants them to see.
I shiver to my toes. And I leave the zipper where he puts it.
Someone clears his throat.
Now that there’s ventilation in the room, I recognize the individual scents—in addition to Dermot, there’s Ivo, Tye, Eamon, Alfie, and Finn. They’re pack. Their scents are as familiar as my own. They’ve never bothered me before, but now, and especially mixed together, they smell disgusting. Worse than a latrine. All kinds of wrong.
“I guess you have a mate after all.” Dermot smirks from his perch on a stool at the breakfast bar. “Let me be the first to congratulate you.”
There’s a general choir of echoed congratulations. All for Killian.
The males studiously avoid looking my way. I swear that Finn Murphy actually scoots his chair further away from me.
“Why don’t you, uh, put her out on the porch?” Alfie says. “Since it’s bothering her in here.”
Put me on the porch? Like a dog?
Dermot cackles. “He can’t do that. You can tell you young pups aren’t mated. You don’t know shit.”
Killian’s wandering fingers are now fiddling with the tip of my braid. “He’s right. I can’t let you out of my sight,” he says low. “I’ll have someone get you a glass of water.”
Ugh. Gross. “No. Thank you. I can’t drink here.”
His eyebrows spear together.
“I don’t want to put anything in my mouth here.”
I brace for a smart remark—not one of my roommates would be able to resist, and they’re females—but he places my braid just so over my shoulder, and strokes down its length one last time. “I won’t be long.”
I shrug. I kind of feel like his luggage at this point, and I’m getting exhausted. The shower wasn’t enough time. I want to be in my own space. I need to clear the cobwebs from my head. They’re getting thicker the longer we’re together.