Dahlia

Alaric’s hand is on my skin. It shouldn’t be. Not when he’s not mine anymore.

My wolf. My mind. Everything in me should yell at him to get the fuck away from me. Instead, heat gathers. Slowly. Steady. Building. I think I even moan. Against my will, of course. Because he shouldn’t be here and taking me on top of a bed. I should feel guilt. Or rage. Or shame. But all I feel is want, loud and impossible and so deep it makes me ache in places I didn’t know still ...