Heston
The car was too quiet.
Too dark. Too slow.
Every time I tapped the gas, my wolf snarled, impatient. The wild bastard was pacing inside my chest like a caged animal, snarling at me for not doing what we were born to do.
For not marking her.
I gripped the steering wheel tighter and let out a long, rough exhale.
“I know,” I muttered to no one. “I should’ve marked her.”
My wolf growled low in my chest—pure instinct and fury.
But I didn’t care.
Because Cordella Blackwood, brilliant, sharp-tongued, power-drunk witch, had taken my knot like she was made for it. She’d begged for my bite. Moaned for me. Whispered Alpha like it was a sacred name.
And goddesss help me—I was happy.
Genuinely, bone-deep, soul-easing happy.
I shouldn’t be.
She was panicking. Actually, freaking out.
