Marked by Her Scent

Chapter 6 Lick

"Iris… can I lick you?"

Silas's normally clear, warm voice had gone low and rough, husky with restrained desire. The words came with a brush of hot breath against Iris's ear, curling inward and sinking deep.

Half her body went numb.

"No—mmph!" Her crisp refusal was smothered by Silas's palm. He pressed so hard that not a single clear syllable could escape.

The next moment, a warm, soft wetness touched her neck.

He was licking her. Once, twice, over and over, seemingly without end. Gradually, his breathing became laced with soft, inexplicable gasps.

The skin of her neck was delicate, sensitive. Every stroke of his tongue sent a jolt of electricity through her.

Soon, her body—which had gone stiff as a board—began to melt, limb by limb. In the end, she could barely stand; only Silas holding her kept her upright.

She couldn't see his face, but her mind painted the picture anyway:

Beautiful, flawless Silas, his pink lips slightly parted, the tip of his tongue just visible. As he licked her, his porcelain cheeks must have flushed. His eyes would be half-lidded, hazy with threads of desire. With each movement, his hair would tremble slightly, and so would his lashes—like the wings of a butterfly…

"Unhh…" A soft moan escaped Iris against her will. Her knees buckled. She sagged downward, only to be caught and pulled back up by Silas.

He pulled back from her neck and looked at her.

His lips glistened with an ambiguous sheen of moisture. His tongue swept across them slowly—and the sheen only grew.

"I heard that," he said, the corners of his lips curving upward. "You liked it."

Iris wanted to shake her head, but his hand still covered her mouth. She couldn't move. She tried to signal with her eyes—not realizing that they were glazed with both arousal and anger, shimmering with unshed tears. The effect was almost coy, a come-hither look she hadn't intended at all.

"I liked it too." He leaned in again, tongue tracing the curve of her ear. "What do I do? I don't think I can let you go anymore."

He took her earlobe between his lips. Sucked.

Inside Iris's head, fireworks exploded into a brilliant, roaring blaze.

---

Iris left work early that day. She didn't walk the dogs. Silas had held her, licking and sucking, for a full half hour. When he saw her hands trembling and legs giving out, he 'generously' allowed her to leave early.

Fine by me. Her legs miraculously steadied. After walking—no, striding—calmly out of the kennel, she ran like a rabbit.

The blush didn't fade the entire way home. Strangers on the street gave her a wide berth, afraid they might catch whatever disease she had.

She was sick. A serious illness. The Omega kind.

The moment she got home, she injected herself with a dose of suppressants.

One dose lasted a month. Her last injection was barely three weeks ago—but given the situation, she decided to take it early.

---

The next day, Iris showed up at the Anderson estate on time. This time, waiting at the kennel wasn't just the Black Belgian Malinois.

Silas was there too.

"I'm coming with you today." His voice was gentle, his tone soft—but the words brooked no argument.

Iris had never imagined Silas could be like this.

The household servants never spoke of the family's private matters. Whatever Iris knew, she'd picked up outside: that his parents were dead, that he had a formidable older brother, that he'd moved to District Four alone to recover from an illness.

At work, she'd occasionally run into Silas. Every time, he was quiet—reading quietly, sipping afternoon tea quietly. Twice she saw him speak to staff, and his manner was perfectly calm.

She'd thought he was a gentle, soft-spoken, well-mannered young man.

But after yesterday…

Silas was willful. He did exactly as he pleased.

That quiet gentleness? A facade. All of it.