Archer’s jaw clenched as he forced himself to stay where he was, his hands gripping the edge of the bed like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. Every instinct in him was screaming—louder with each second, sharper with every uneven breath Shiloh took. The scent in the room thickened, wrapping around him and pulling at something deep inside that he had spent years learning to control.
“Shiloh…” Archer said again, his voice lower now, steadier than he felt.
Shiloh shook his head weakly, his hand tightening on the sheets as another wave passed through him. “Don’t… don’t say my name like that,” he whispered, though there was no real strength behind the protest. His body betrayed him again, his breathing hitching as his eyes squeezed shut, as if that alone could block everything out.
