NOLA
The walk down to the sub basement felt like descending into the mouth of some ancient, sleeping beast that hadn't seen the sun in decades. The air turned sharp and biting, the kind of cold that seemed to bypass my skin and settle directly into my marrow. Rhett was leading the way, his hand locked around mine with a grip that was just shy of painful, his thumb tracing frantic, rhythmic circles over my knuckles. He was still shirtless, and in the dim, amber glow of the emergency lights, the muscles of his back looked like corded steel under tension. I could smell the storm on him, that heavy, ozone scent that always preceded his shift, mixed with the lingering, musky heat of the rut that still hadn't fully left the room.
"How much further?" I asked, my voice bouncing off the damp ston
