His Omega, His Ruin

A Dangerous Scent

Morning light in the mountains came sharper than anywhere else.

It cut through the heavy velvet curtains in slivers of blinding white, and I woke alone, the space beside me already cool to the touch. The pillow still smelled heavily of him—deep earth and a night sky before lightning—and I lay there for a long moment, pressing my face into the fabric before I could stop myself.

I was still wearing his t-shirt.

It had slipped off one shoulder in the night, rumpled from sleep, smelling even more like him now that my body heat had been woven into the fabric. I sat up slowly, trying to make sense of the room, of the previous night, of the impossible reality that I had woken up alive and warm and not alone.

I ventured out.

The house was quiet in the mid-morning lull. I followed the scent of old paper and leather down a corridor I hadn't explored yet, drawn by the soft, beckoning pull of books. The double doors at the end were ajar, and I pushed them open to find a library that stole every thought in my head.

Two stories high, lined floor-to-ceiling with books, a rolling wooden ladder on a brass rail, and a massive mahogany desk positioned before a wall of glass that looked out over snow-capped peaks. The space smelled like aged paper and cedar and something that was distinctly, deeply him.

This was his den. His territory within the territory.

I stepped inside. My bare feet sank into the Persian rug. I walked to the nearest shelf and ran my fingers along the spines—leather-bound classics beside dog-eared paperbacks, atlases stacked next to novels with cracked spines. I pulled one free and opened it just to breathe in that dusty, vanilla warmth of old pages.

"I didn't take you for a reader."

I spun around, clutching the book to my chest.

Magnus was leaning in the doorway. Dark jeans, black sweater, a mug of coffee in one hand. He was dressed for the day but he wasn't looking at the book in my hands. He was looking at me. Specifically at the way his shirt hung from my frame—the neckline slipping off one shoulder, the hem barely grazing my thighs.

He set the mug down on a small side table without breaking eye contact.

I watched him push off the doorframe. He moved the way he always did—with the unhurried, fluid grace of something that had never had a reason to rush. I backed up until my hips met the edge of the desk, and he kept coming, closing the distance until he stood inches from me, his hands braced on the mahogany on either side of my hips.

He leaned down, his face so close I could see the flecks of amber in his gold irises.

He inhaled slowly. His eyes fluttered shut for just a moment as he breathed in the scent of his own soap and musk rising from my warm skin.

"You are wearing my clothes," he said. His voice had dropped to a gravelly timber that resonated in my chest. "Do you have any idea what that does to a male, Mira? Seeing his mate wrapped in his scent, standing in the heart of his own territory?"

"I didn't have anything else," I whispered.

"You could have asked for silk." He opened his eyes. The pupils were blown wide. "You could have asked for diamonds. But you chose my old shirt."

He lifted one hand, his knuckles grazing the sensitive skin of my throat, tracing the line of my pulse with devastating gentleness. I shivered, and the sound that escaped me—small, involuntary—seemed to snap something thin and taut inside him.

He pressed closer. I could feel the heat radiating from him, the hard, lean lines of his body against my legs, the unmistakable evidence of what my proximity was doing to him. It should have frightened me. Instead, it felt like standing in the eye of a storm—the most dangerous place in the world, and somehow the safest.

"My wolf is very possessive," he warned, his lips brushing against my forehead as he spoke. "He sees you like this—smelling like us, looking like you belong here—and he loses all reason."

I swallowed. My knuckles went white against the edge of the desk. "What does he want to do?"

Magnus groaned—a low, tortured sound that echoed in the quiet room. He pressed his forehead against mine, his breathing ragged, every muscle in his body coiled with the effort of restraint.

"He wants to lock the door," Magnus whispered. His hands tightened on the wood until it creaked. "He wants to keep you in this room, in my shirt, in my arms, and never let you leave." He pulled back just enough to look at me. His eyes burned. "Do not tempt him, little wolf. Not unless you are ready to be absolutely devoured."