Ronan
The inside of the cabin smells like home. It smells like us.
The rut still clings to our skin, ground into sweat and bruises, thick in the seams of our clothes. It smelled strong enough in the open air. Shut inside four log walls, it blooms heavy, suffocating, thick as smoke.
My wolf stretches in it, pleased, possessive. Mine, mine, mine. But the man in me knows the timing is a disaster. Any Blackthorn wolf with a nose will catch one whiff and know exactly what I’ve been doing instead of leading them.
Nobody would begrudge an Alpha his rut, but the timing was f*****g awful.
Eli, naturally, makes it worse. He peels off his jacket, tosses it on the hook like he’s strolling in after a hunt, then wrinkles his nose.
“Gods, we reek.” He eyes the washroom door, “Think I’ve got time
