After the searing, animalistic tension of the kitchen, retreating to my room felt like pulling into a safe, cold harbor in the middle of a Category 5 hurricane.
Varg, driven by his uncle's furious warning and the undeniable biological chaos I had stirred within him, had retreated into his own darkness to recalibrate his pheromones and his shattered Alpha composure. I, on the other hand, collapsed onto my bed, the ghost of that forbidden, bitter-chocolate taste still lingering on the roof of my mouth and the phantom weight of his bruised fingers still marking the sensitive, pale skin of my waist.
