The word pup did not process as a biological concept. It hit her nervous system as a physical weight, dropping straight to the agonizingly wet pulse between her thighs.
Jane gripped the edge of the mahogany table. Her knuckles turned bone-white. She desperately tried to calculate the sheer political impossibility of what he had just said, trying to force her mind into its familiar, sterile boxes. But the boxes were burning. The feral venom he had injected into her neck days ago was active, fundamentally rewriting her chemistry, dragging her into a violent, artificial heat.
She looked up at the ceiling. She tried to count the acoustic tiles. One. Two. Three.
Michael caught her chin. His fingers were hot enough to leave bruises. He forced her gaze back down to his.
Stop calculating, he w
