November Heat

2

Kate didn’t manage to stop in time.

She almost plowed straight into the wall at the end of the alley, shoved off it with her shoulder, and shot forward by sheer momentum—only to slam into a trash can. Thankfully, it was almost empty. The crash, though, probably echoed across the whole damn neighborhood.

She brushed herself off and wiped away the tears that had sprung to her eyes from the sprint, not from emotion—God forbid—but from the cold air and speed. Half-blind, she groped her way toward the precious little staircase in her memory, already replaying the evening the way it should have gone: she’d head down, somehow find a replacement bottle of cognac for the one she’d abandoned in the park, finally write something scathing in that complaint book, and then barricade herself at home for three days with her phone off, romcoms on, and enough chocolate to bribe a small army.

A scruffy alley cat suddenly hissed and shot under her feet.

Kate’s balance vanished. She had just enough time to squeeze her eyes shut and register the image: her body tumbling into the stairwell, rolling all the way down, ending up on the pavement like a broken doll. No amount of training was going to save her from a snapped neck.

The thought flickered through her skull—that’s karma for the poor bastard I bit in the park—and then she smashed her nose straight into a brick wall.

For one delirious heartbeat she felt relieved. A busted nose was better than a broken neck.

And then the relief froze in her veins.

The staircase was gone.

Panic flared. Kate spun and shoved her palms against the dusty brick, groping frantically, coughing as grit filled her lungs and blood from her nose smeared across her hoodie in streaks.

“We’re not done, omega.”

The rough, displeased voice sounded right behind her.

Kate whirled around, lips peeling back from her teeth. If this was it, she’d sell her life—and her honor—at the highest f*****g price she could.

He runs fast, she thought wildly.

When he saw her face, the anger tight across his features loosened into something else: sharp, genuine concern.

“Are you all right?” he asked, moving toward her.

She blinked at him, thrown off, noticing the bloodstains on his pale T-shirt. He’d even grabbed her bag—the one with the alcohol, the pills, and the tampons. Great. Her would-be stalker was now also her personal delivery service.

“Oh sure, I’m fantastic,” Kate snorted, sniffing hard. “Best day of my life. But you? You’re about to not be all right. Put the bag down and walk away.”

“I don’t know what’s going on with you,” the psycho said calmly, “but I can’t leave you in trouble.”

“And what makes you think I’m in trouble?” Kate snapped. “I’m not some f*****g damsel in distress. Back off, you goddamn stalker.”

“My name is Ben Armstrong,” the stranger said.

“Perfect. Then I’ll know what to put on your headstone.” Kate set her feet wider, curled her hands into fists, and readied herself. “Because I’m about to dominate you so hard you won’t be able to sit down.”

“Stop.” His voice cracked like a whip. “I’m not going to fight you, omega.”

“Listen, you, alpha…” she started, came up empty on a good enough insult, then finished, “you filthy, male, chauvinist pig.”

“You bit me,” Ben reminded her, voice going dark. “And we need to talk about that as soon as possible—before the twelve hours are up.”

“Go cry to your mommy,” Kate snorted. “Or, I don’t know, go file a police report.”

Naturally, that was the cue for the universe to send in reinforcements.

Another man stepped into the scene—a sturdy guy in a blue uniform.

“Is there a problem here?” he asked.

Ben turned toward the cop and dropped her bag sharply. The bottles clinked in protest. Under the hazy glow of the streetlamp, Kate saw his whole body tighten, shoulders rolling forward, his posture screaming mine in a language she didn’t want to understand.

The cop, a pretty, dark-haired guy, lit up in a wide grin and held out his hand.

“Ben—” he started cheerfully, but Ben cut him off.

“Back,” Ben growled.

The cop actually obeyed, taking a step back. Ben drew in a long breath, then jerked his head toward Kate.

“She’s my mate. Her heat is about to start.”

Kate stared at him, jaw slack. Was he serious? He sounded serious.

What was worse—the cop believed him instantly.

He jerked back a couple more paces, hands coming up, palms out like he was de-escalating a bomb.

“Whoa, whoa, Ben! Since when did you—” He stopped himself, shook his head. “You know what? Doesn’t matter. I’m bonded, you know that. What’s going on here, exactly? You want a squad car to get her home?”

Ben just gave a grim nod.

That was enough to snap Kate out of her stupor.

“Officer, officer!” She lunged forward, but Ben blocked her path, a low, rumbling growl curling out of his chest. The cop actually flinched, like he was the one in danger here.

Kate slammed on the brakes herself, stunned. For once in her life she decided not to kick the guy in the kneecap and instead—God help her—try using words.

“There’s been a mistake,” she blurted. “I don’t know him.”

Relief fizzed in her chest when the cop’s smile faded and his brows drew together. He glanced at Ben, questioning.

Ben didn’t even blink. He just moved his hand away from his neck.

The streetlamp caught the smear of dried blood there. The cop let out a low whistle and backed up another step. Then—oh, for f**k’s sake—he gave Ben a filthy little grin.

“Fiery one, huh?” he drawled, waggling his eyebrows. “Yeah, I know that type.”

He tugged his collar down, exposing a white, crescent-shaped scar on the side of his neck. It stood out sharply against his dark skin.

“My mate kept insisting he ‘wasn’t like that’ either,” the cop went on, still grinning and winking like they were sharing a joke at a bar. Kate’s jaw dropped another inch. The cop was openly, cheerfully gay on top of everything else.

“But when I took him down, he twisted around and sank his teeth right into my gland. He was first,” the cop added, puffed up with pride. “We’ve been tight ever since. Got a little one on the way now. I’m glad you finally—”

Kate had officially had enough.

She shoved past Ben, knocking his shoulder with hers.

“What the hell are you two babbling about? I don’t know him! What mates? What kids?!”

Ben caught her around the waist and hauled her back behind him with another warning rumble, and this time the cop’s hand went to his belt. Not to his gun—to some long, thin device that looked way too clinical for her liking.

“Ben, what’s wrong with her?” the cop asked, tension edging into his voice. “You’ve seen the latest reports. I have to log every case of… uterine rabies…”

“What the f**k?” Kate exploded.

She thrashed, but Ben shifted his grip, locking her in place like she weighed nothing, and clamped a hand over her mouth.

She bit him. Hard.

He didn’t even flinch.