Chapter 57
Kara
I'm sandwiched in the backseat between Blake and the door. Cole rides shotgun, Asher drives. The leather seat beneath me is warm, heated to combat the minus-eighteen-degree chill outside. My breath should be fogging—but it's not. Because the air inside this car is suffocating.
Three sets of lungs. Three distinct scents braiding together—ebony smoke, gunpowder leather, mint ozone—wrapping around me until I can taste them on my tongue.
Too close. Too much. Too—
"Kara."
Blake's voice cuts through my spiral. His arm drapes across the seat behind me, not quite touching, but close enough that I feel the heat radiating off his skin through my winter coat.
"Yeah?"
"You okay?"
No. "Fine."
His eyes narrow. Even without looking, I know he's reading my pulse, my scent, the micro-tremors in my hands.
Damn supernatural senses.
"You smell like—" He stops. Jaw tightens. "Never mind."
But I know what he was going to say.
Fear. Arousal. Confusion.
The unholy trinity of my existence these past forty-eight hours.
---
We're maybe five minutes from Midnight Estate when it happens.
I shift in my seat, trying to ease the pressure building low in my belly—a side effect of being trapped in close quarters with three Alphas whose scents make my wolf pant like a bitch in heat.
Blake inhales sharply.
Then freezes.
His entire body goes rigid beside me, spine straightening, shoulders bunching. In the rearview mirror, Asher's eyes flash gold. Cole whips around in his seat, mint flooding the car so fast my lungs seize.
"What the fuck?"
Blake's snarl makes me flinch. His hand shoots out, grabs my wrist—not hard, but firm, unyielding—and drags it toward his face.
"Blake, what—"
"Who touched you?"
My brain short-circuits. "What?"
His nose presses to the inside of my wrist, inhaling deeply. A low growl rumbles from his chest, vibrating through his grip into my bones.
"There's someone else's scent on you."
The car swerves.
Asher's knuckles go white on the steering wheel as he yanks us back into our lane. The tires slip on ice for a heart-stopping second before catching. Cole's mint scent spikes so sharp it burns my sinuses.
"WHERE?" Asher's voice drops an octave. Alpha command bleeds through every syllable.
Blake's grip tightens. His free hand reaches up, threads through my hair—and pulls.
Not painfully. But enough to tilt my head back, expose my throat, force me to meet his gaze.
Gold bleeds into blue. His wolf stares at me through human eyes.
"Your hair," he grinds out. "Pine. Fucking pine and wet earth. Who. Touched. You."
Oh.
Oh shit.
"Dorian," I blurt. "He—he gave me back my math notebook. That's all. He—"
"Dorian?" Blake's voice drops to a register that makes my core clench involuntarily. Heat floods between my thighs. Fuck. "That little shit who used to steal your things?"
"He apologized—"
"Did he touch you?"
"He—my hair got caught in my collar, he just—"
The car jerks to a stop.
We're on the shoulder of the road, hazard lights blinking. Snow swirls outside, blanketing the windshield. Inside, the temperature spikes as three sets of pheromones explode in unison.
Ebony smoke. Gunpowder leather. Mint ozone.
Choking. Drowning. Claiming.
My nipples tighten beneath my bra. Jesus Christ.
"Get out." Asher's command cuts through the haze.
"What?" My voice cracks.
"Front seat. Cole, back."
They move with military precision. Cole vaults over the center console, landing in the backseat beside Blake. I'm hauled into the front passenger seat, Asher's hands on my waist—burning through my coat, my sweater, straight to skin.
The door slams shut.
Silence.
Then—
"Blake, your hands. Now."
Asher's tone brooks no argument. But Blake's already moving.
His fingers slide into my hair from behind, tangling in the curls at my nape. Slow. Deliberate. Starting at the roots, working toward the ends—and with every pass, his scent floods me.
Gunpowder. Leather. The sharp tang of possession.
My scalp tingles. Heat blooms where he touches, spreading down my spine, pooling low in my belly. My thighs clench together involuntarily.
Fuck fuck fuck.
"You're—" My voice comes out breathy. Wrong. "What are you doing?"
"Covering it." Blake's breath ghosts across my ear, and I feel my pussy throb in response. Goddammit. "Every. Single. Molecule. Of. His. Scent."
Asher's hand lands on my thigh.
I gasp—actually gasp—like some virginal heroine in a romance novel.
His palm is massive, fingers spread wide, claiming the space above my knee. The thick fabric of my tights does nothing to dull the sensation—heat seeps through polyester and skin, branding me.
Between my legs, I'm getting wet. I can feel it—the slickness gathering, soaking through my panties.
They're going to smell it. Oh God, they're going to know—
"We're scent-marking you," Asher murmurs. Low. Dangerous. "The way we should have done the moment you stepped out of this car this morning."
His hand slides higher.
Just an inch. Maybe two.
But it's enough to make my breath hitch, thighs clenching together on instinct—trying to hide the evidence of what his touch is doing to me.
"Fuck." Cole's voice comes from behind, strained. Wrecked. "Asher, her scent—"
"I know."
Oh shit. They can smell it. They can smell how fucking turned on I am.
Asher's thumb draws a slow circle on my inner thigh. The pressure is light, teasing, but my body screams for more. My hips shift forward without permission, seeking friction that isn't there.
Blake's fingers massage my scalp, working through each curl with methodical patience. His other hand wraps around the front of my throat—not squeezing, just holding—and his nose presses to the side of my neck.
Right over the kiss mark he left yesterday.
A whimper escapes me. Small. Pathetic.
Shut up shut up shut up—
"Mine," Blake growls against my skin.
My core clenches. Hard. A rush of wetness floods my panties.
I'm going to come. Jesus Christ, I'm going to come just from them touching me and I can't—
Then Cole's there, too.
His hand slides under my hair, cupping the back of my neck. His mint scent wraps around me from behind, cooling Blake's fire but only making the burn worse. His thumb traces the edge of my collar, dipping just beneath the fabric—
And brushes the top of my spine.
"Ah—"
The sound tears out of me. Desperate. Needy.
My nipples are so hard they hurt. My pussy is throbbing, clenching around nothing, and I'm so wet I'm terrified it's going to soak through my jeans—
"His scent is gone," Cole whispers, but his voice is ragged. "All I smell now is us. And her."
White musk. Fresh snow.
And arousal. Fuck, they can smell how badly I want them.
My wolf preens.
Yes. This. Right. Pack. Ours.
But my human side—
"You're—" I swallow hard. Try to find my voice through the haze of lust. "You're overreacting. He didn't—it was an accident—"
"Doesn't matter." Asher's hand stills on my thigh—still too close to where I'm aching, throbbing, desperate—but doesn't retreat. "You wear our scent. No one else's."
Blake's nose trails up my neck, inhaling deeply. "Next time someone touches you—even by accident—you tell us. Immediately."
"I'm not—" My voice shakes. My thighs tremble. I'm so close to the edge I could cry. "Property—"
"No." Asher's grip tightens fractionally, and the pressure sends sparks shooting up my spine. His eyes meet mine—blue, burning, intense. "You're not property. You're ours. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
The question hangs in the air.
For a moment, no one moves.
I'm panting. Actually panting. My chest heaves, breasts straining against my bra, nipples visible through my sweater.
They can see. They know exactly what they're doing to me.
Then Cole's voice, soft and aching: "You really don't see it, do you?"
"See what?" My voice breaks.
"That we're yours too."
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