The Trash Husband is a Lycan God

The Scent

Three days passed. The blockade was absolute. Seraphina had called every supplier in the state, and the answer was always the same: "Sorry, Mr. Vane has bought our entire stock."

She returned to the penthouse at 2 AM, stumbling slightly. She wasn't a drinker, but tonight she had downed three whiskies with a potential investor who had spent the entire dinner staring at her chest before saying "No."

"I hate them," she slurred, kicking off her heels. "I hate them all."

The apartment was dark. She assumed Killian was asleep.

She walked towards the kitchen for water, unzipping her dress as she went. The tight fabric was suffocating her. She let it drop to the floor, leaving her in a sheer lace slip.

"Sera?"

A deep voice came from the shadows of the kitchen island.

Seraphina jumped, her hand flying to her chest. "Killian?"

He was sitting on a bar stool, a glass of ice water in front of him. He wasn't wearing a shirt. The moonlight filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting his skin in shades of silver and blue. His bandage was gone, revealing the smooth, unblemished skin where a bullet hole had been just two days ago. His muscles rippled as he moved—hard, defined, and laced with the white, jagged lines of old scars.

"You're up late," he said, his voice strained, rough like gravel. He wasn't looking at her face. He was looking at the floor, his knuckles white around the glass.

"I... I failed," Seraphina whimpered. The alcohol made her emotions raw, stripping away her CEO armor. Tears spilled over, hot and fast. "I'm going to lose the company. Grandfather will be so disappointed. I'm just a failure."

She walked towards him, seeking comfort, seeking anything to numb the pain. She forgot she was half-naked. She forgot he was just a contract husband.

"Sera, don't," Killian warned. He stood up, the stool scraping loudly against the floor. He backed away until he hit the counter. "Stay back."

"Why?" She stopped, hurt flashing through her drunken haze. "Do you think I'm ugly? Lucas says I'm too icy. He says no man could ever want me."

"You are not ugly," Killian growled. The sound was low, vibrating in his chest, more animal than human. "You are... dangerous."

He could smell her distress. It wasn't just a metaphor. It was a physical scent—sweet, sharp, like burnt sugar and ozone. It mixed with her natural fragrance of vanilla and night-blooming jasmine, hitting his Lycan receptors like a Class-A drug.

His inner wolf was clawing at his ribcage, howling, screaming: _MATE. HURT. COMFORT. CLAIM._

His eyes flashed gold. He squeezed them shut, fighting the transformation. The beast wanted to wrap her in his scent, to tear apart anyone who made her cry.

Seraphina took another step. She reached out and touched his bare chest. His skin was burning hot, feverish.

"You're feverish," she murmured, her cool hand sliding up his abs, tracing the definition of his obliques.

_Snap._

Killian’s control broke.

He grabbed her wrist. His grip was iron, bruising in its intensity. He pulled her flush against his body.

_Thud._

Seraphina gasped as she hit his hard chest. She should have been scared. He was too strong, too intense, radiating a heat that felt like a furnace. But she wasn't scared. She felt... safe.

She looked up. His eyes were open now. They were dark, dilated so wide they looked almost black, but with a rim of molten, swirling gold.

He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply.

"Killian..." she breathed, her heart hammering against his.

The scent hit her again. That storm-and-pine smell, amplifed by his heat. It was overwhelming. It made her knees weak. Her body reacted instantly, a wave of liquid heat pooling in her lower belly, an instinct she didn't understand waking up.

"You smell so good," she whispered, her voice trembling.

Killian shuddered, a full-body tremor. He pressed his hips against hers. She felt the hard ridge of his arousal, distinct and demanding against her thin lace slip.

"Run," he rasped against her skin, his lips brushing the sensitive spot below her ear. "Sera, run to your room. Lock the door. Do it now."

"I don't want to run," she said, her hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. "I don't want to be alone."

She tilted her head back, baring her throat. An ancient sign of submission she didn't even know she knew.

Killian groaned, a sound of pure torture. His canines elongated, sharpening into razor-sharp fangs. He wanted to bite. He wanted to sink his teeth into the soft skin of her shoulder, to mark her, to bond their souls so deep that death itself couldn't separate them.

But he couldn't.

Not yet.

If he marked her, the energy signature would be like a flare in the night sky. The Vane Pack would sense it. The Red Circle would sense it. They would hunt her down to get to him. She would be a target.

He was protecting her by rejecting her.

With a roar of frustration, Killian shoved her away. Gently enough not to hurt her, but firm enough to break the contact.

"Go!" he commanded. The Alpha Voice laced his tone—compelling, undeniable.

Seraphina blinked, the spell breaking. She saw the torture in his face, the sweat beading on his forehead, the war in his eyes.

"Killian?"

"I said GO!" he roared, turning and smashing his fist into the granite countertop.

_CRACK._

The stone spiderwebbed under the blow.

Seraphina fled. She turned and ran to her room, slamming the door and locking it.

Killian stood in the kitchen, surrounded by the ruin of the expensive counter. He gripped the edge until stone turned to dust under his fingers.

"Damn it," he panted, his chest heaving as he fought to retract his claws. "Damn this bond."

He needed to end this war fast. Before his wolf decided that claiming his mate was more important than keeping her alive.