Owen
“Owen,” Amelia whimpers, still twitching beneath me in pleasure.
When I don’t respond, don’t touch her, she meets my gaze with a pleading look that disintegrates the second she reads my face. “What’s wrong?” she asks, seemingly trying to blink through the haze of ecstasy still lingering in her veins.
The words are on the tip of my tongue: Ava is my mate. But the second I open my mouth to voice them, my wolf barks at me. I bite my tongue instead, still kneeling between Amelia’s legs.
Her brows furrow at my silence, and she sits up, bracing herself on her elbows. “Is someone coming?” she whispers, looking around the forest. I can feel her fear ratchet up through our bond.
I ache to reassure her. To hold her and comfort her. To bring her back to pleasure and relaxation.
“No,” I
