POV: Rian
The penthouse was too hot.
I knew, logically, that the climate control system in the Millennium Tower was state-of-the-art. I knew the thermostat was set to a crisp sixty-eight degrees. But my skin felt like it was two sizes too tight, and the air felt heavy, like the breathless moment before a thunderstorm breaks.
I stood by the glass wall in the living room, pressing my forehead against the cool pane. It didn't help.
"You're doing it again," Varrick said.
I didn't turn around. I could hear the scratch of his pen on paper from the dining table where he was working. The sound grated on my nerves like sandpaper.
"Doing what?" I snapped, my voice sharper than I intended.
"Vibrating," Varrick replied, the pen stopping. "You've been pacing the perimeter of this room for an hour. You're making me dizzy."
"Maybe if you let me go outside," I turned, glaring at him, "I wouldn't have to pace."
Varrick looked up. His eyes were dark, rimmed with a strange, frantic energy. He looked as on edge as I felt. He wasn't wearing his jacket, and his tie was discarded on the floor. He looked unkempt, untamed.
"We discussed this," he growled. "You don't leave the penthouse."
"I need air, Varrick!" I shouted, the anger flaring up sudden and hot in my chest. "I'm suffocating in here! I just want to step out on the balcony. Is that too much to ask? Or are you afraid I'll jump again?"
Varrick stood up. The chair scraped violently against the hardwood floor.
"Don't," he warned, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling register that made the hair on my arms stand up. "Don't tempt me to tie you to the furniture, Rian. Because right now, my patience is hanging by a thread."
"Your patience?" I laughed, a hysterical edge to the sound. "I'm the prisoner! You're the jailer! You don't get to be the one who's annoyed!"
I marched toward the balcony door. I knew it was locked. I knew Kael had disabled the release mechanism. But I needed to try. I needed to claw at the walls.
I grabbed the handle and rattled it. Locked.
"Open it!" I screamed, slamming my hand against the glass.
"Get away from the door," Varrick commanded.
"No!"
I rattled it again, harder.
Varrick moved.
He didn't walk; he stalked. He crossed the room in three strides, grabbing my shoulder and spinning me around. He shoved me back, away from the glass, pinning me against the wall.
"I said get away from the door!" he roared.
The sound crashed over me, pure Alpha dominance. It should have made me cower. It should have made me submit.
Instead, it made my blood boil.
"Make me," I challenged, looking up into his furious face.
Varrick froze.
He stared down at me, his chest heaving. His pupils were blown wide, black holes swallowing the irises. He leaned in, burying his face in the crook of my neck, inhaling violently.
"You smell..." He trailed off, a shudder racking his massive frame. "God. You smell like honey and arsenic. You're choking me with it."
"Then let me go," I whispered, my hands gripping his shirt, bunching the fabric. I wanted to push him away. I wanted to pull him closer. My body was confused, aching with a hollow, throbbing need that I couldn't name.
"I can't," Varrick rasped against my skin. His teeth grazed my pulse point. "Every instinct I have is screaming at me to lock you in a room and not let you out until I've bitten you."
My knees went weak. The image flashed through my mind—Varrick, heavy on top of me, claiming me, ending this unbearable tension.
The thought terrified me.
I shoved him. Hard.
"Get off me!" I gasped, ducking under his arm.
Varrick stumbled back, looking dazed. He ran a hand through his hair, gripping the roots as if trying to physically hold his composure together.
"Go to the library," he ordered, not looking at me. His voice was strained, tight. "Go work on the ledgers. Get out of my sight, Rian. Before I do something we both regret."
"Fine!" I shouted.
I turned and fled.
I ran down the hallway, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. My skin was burning. The friction of my clothes felt unbearable.
I burst into the library and slammed the heavy double doors shut. I leaned against them, gasping for air.
What is wrong with me?
I touched my forehead. It was slick with sweat. My stomach cramped—a sharp, twisting knot that doubled me over.
I stumbled toward the desk, collapsing into the leather chair. I tried to focus on the tablet. I tried to look at the numbers. But the screen blurred.
The smell of the library—old paper and lemon—faded.
It was replaced by the scent rising from my own skin. Heavy. Cloying. Sweet.
I squeezed my eyes shut, a whimper escaping my throat.
I wasn't sick. I wasn't crazy.
My cycle.
I had miscalculated. The stress, the withdrawal, the proximity to a powerful Alpha—it had jump-started my biology.
I wasn't just irritable. I was pre-heat.
And Varrick? Varrick wasn't just angry. He was reacting to the pheromones I was pumping into the air. He was rut-drunk on my scent, fighting his own biology just as hard as I was fighting mine.
I looked at the door.
I had just run away from him. But every cell in my body was screaming at me to go back. To open the door. To find him.
No, I told myself, gripping the edge of the desk until my knuckles turned white. I am not an animal. I am not a slave to this.
But as the cramp hit again, sharper this time, bringing me to my knees, I knew I was lying.
The storm wasn't outside anymore. It was in my blood.
And it was about to break.