The Scent Incident
665 Words
My hand was still hovering over the door.
I didn't remember standing.
But I was already there.
Bare feet against the cold floor, heart beating too fast for someone who had only crossed a room. The bond pulled—steady and insistent—like a thread looped through my ribs and drawn gently forward.
I opened the door.
Silas stood on the other side.
Not knocking.
Waiting.
The hallway was dim, lit by low sconces that painted warm gold across dark wood panels. Snowlight bled faintly through the tall windows at the far end. Frost clung to the shoulders of his coat, melting slowly as he stood there, as if he had been still for a long time.
His gaze lifted to mine immediately.
Something in his expression sharpened.
"You dreamed," he said quietly.
It wasn't a question.
My throat tightened. "You were there."
A beat.
"Yes."
The bond pulsed hard enough to make my chest tighten.
I should have closed the door.
I didn't.
I leaned lightly against the frame instead, suddenly aware of how close he stood. Close enough that the scent of pine and smoke reached me. Familiar now. Recognizable.
Dangerous.
His attention shifted.
Not to my face.
Lower.
Then back again, sharper.
His jaw tightened.
"What?" I asked, defensive immediately.
His voice dropped.
"Your scent has changed again."
I crossed my arms. "I'm a person, not a candle."
His gaze didn't move away.
"It is stronger."
Heat rose along my neck. "You keep saying things like that, and I keep not knowing how I'm supposed to react."
He stepped closer.
I stayed exactly where I was.
The bond reacted instantly—warmth spreading beneath my sternum, steady and alive. My pulse accelerated, not from fear but recognition.
"You felt it too," he said.
I tried for irritation. "I had a vivid dream. That doesn't mean—"
"It was not only a dream."
The hallway seemed quieter.
Even the house felt like it was listening.
I swallowed. "Then what was it?"
"Connection."
My heartbeat stumbled.
"That's not comforting," I said.
"No," he agreed softly.
Another step forward.
Close enough now that I could feel his body heat through the cool air. Close enough that his breath brushed faintly across my skin when he spoke.
"You should rest," I said quickly, words arriving without conviction.
"You smell like me now."
The sentence stole the air from my lungs.
"That's—" I stopped. "You can't just say that."
His gaze dropped briefly to my throat.
I felt it—warmth blooming there, sudden and startling. My pulse fluttered under my skin, sensitive to the attention, to the proximity.
"I am trying not to," he said, voice rougher.
"Trying not to what?"
His restraint was visible now. Shoulders held tight. Breathing measured.
"To mark you."
The words should have frightened me.
They didn't.
Instead, heat slid down my spine, the bond answering with a low, steady thrum that felt dangerously close to relief.
I hated that my body leaned toward him a fraction before I caught myself.
"You can't," I said, but the protest came softer than I intended.
"I know."
His hand lifted slowly—not touching—hovering beside my neck. Close enough that I could feel the warmth of his palm without contact. Close enough that his breath brushed my throat and my pulse reacted, quickening under his attention.
He gave me time to move.
I didn't.
"Why?" I whispered.
His eyes held mine.
"Because you have not chosen it," he said quietly. "Not like this."
The bond tightened, not painful but deeper, as if settling into a place it hadn't reached before.
My breathing unsteady, I forced the word out.
"Don't."
But I didn't step back.
We stood there, suspended—his hand hovering, my pulse unsteady, the air between us charged with everything neither of us crossed.
My heartbeat slowly matched his rhythm.
And the moment lasted long enough that pretending nothing had changed was no longer possible.
- Writer
