The Gamma’s Second Chance (Crescent Lake #3)

10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

CASSANDRA

That was unexpected.

Not Haven’s aura itself. Her releasing it during her heightened emotions in the middle of rehearsal, when she found she could no longer perform a skill that is usually second nature for her? I expected that.

What I didn’t expect was the strength of the aura. Even feeling her aura during our drive to the city on my first day working with her and Nolan didn’t prepare me for the pure energy within it. The pulsing, rippling, dancing, silvery starlight that floated through the interior of the truck gave no hint of the depth of power it contains. I don’t think Haven—or any of the others—realizes the full capacity of the mystical, mysterious aura Selene gifted her with. I underestimated it as well.

And now I’m paying for it.

After we drop an emotional Haven off at the packhouse, Nolan heads straight home. He parks his truck in the driveway and is around the hood and opening my door before I even have my seatbelt unbuckled. I blink at him and his offered hand before slipping mine into it and letting him help me out of the vehicle. His skin is warm, and his touch gentle but firm as he guides me to the ground.

My hand lingers in his for longer than necessary, enjoying the feel of his skin against mine and the way my delicate, pale hand looks in his stronger, darker grasp. He gives my hand a subtle squeeze, then grabs my bag and his without saying a word to me, that blank, unreadable expression on his face as always, but I swear there is something similar to concern in his eyes.

Or maybe not. Because they’re empty and serious when he shuts the truck door and brushes past me and towards the house.

I follow him, holding my smiling facade, keeping up the pretense that I don’t feel as though I ran a marathon with no training. I’ll keep my act going until I’m alone in my room, where I can curl up in the cozy bed and sleep until morning.

No one needs to know how exhausted I am after absorbing Haven’s aura. Because next time, I’ll be better prepared. Next time, I’ll handle it better so this doesn’t happen again.

He opens the front door and holds it for me, waiting for me to enter the house. His eyes linger on the space right below the peephole, where I’ve placed an almost microscopic label with my name on the door. I’ve waited for days for him to notice it. I thought he would have the other day after our race down the mountain, but he didn’t. And any other time, I would watch his every movement and facial expression, reveling in his reaction to seeing I’ve laid claim to his house too.

I’m too tired to care, however. All I want is to throw on sweats or pajamas and wrap myself in a fuzzy blanket while reading a good book until I can no longer form thoughts or keep my eyes open. So I walk right past him and into the house, heading straight towards my room, intent on doing just that.

But Nolan, it seems, has other plans.

“Couch,” he says with a grunt, pointing towards the living room.

I bristle at the veiled command in his tone and find I can no longer keep my composure. Everything is too much. I’m exhausted—from absorbing Haven’s aura and from the back and forth, the hot and cold, the whiplash I keep getting from trying to keep up with his mood swings and his almost dual personalities.

I know that’s not what it is. I know there is something else, some pain he’s burying deep inside, some wound that’s festered for far too long and never truly healed. But I can’t keep this up anymore. I can’t paint sunshine for him and for me.

I have my own pain, my own demons, and I don’t need to be the target of his.

My smile drops, and I rub my face, sliding my hands backwards towards my ponytail. “I’m tired, and I just want to lie down.”

He blocks my path as I walk towards my bedroom, his imposing stature filling the hallway and keeping me in the entrance. “You can. On the couch,” he says, arms crossed and face stern.

I sigh. “Please, Nolan. I—”

He points towards the living room behind me, his eyes darkening, his stance widening, and his voice tinged with a growl. “Daisy. Go to the couch, or I will take you there myself.”

What the fuck is this? This bossy, dominant, take-charge attitude? Who does he think he is to order me around like this?

And why do I like it so much? Why is my first reaction to submit to him and let him do whatever he wants with me, let him take charge and take care of me in his own grumpy way?

A groan of exasperation leaves my lips, and I move to my right, attempting to squeeze past him. But he mirrors my movement, leaving no room for my body. I slide to my left, but again, he does the same, preventing me from entering the hallway.

My hands curl into fists, my eyes close, and I freeze, shoulders slumping in exhaustion as I sway on my feet. I’m too tired to keep this dance of defiance going with him. “Just let me—Nolan!”

He growls again, then lifts me, cradling me to his chest, his solid arms unmoving and surprisingly tender as he carries me to the couch in his living room. My mouth pops open to protest more, but his hazel eyes meet mine, cutting off all words and thoughts. His jaw is sharp and clenched, a muscle ticking near his ear, and his mouth is set in a hard line, but his eyes are soft and concerned, scanning my face and swirling with the presence of his wolf.

Against my better judgment, against my will, I relax into his arms, into his chest, my cheek resting on his shoulder. My eyelids flutter shut, and I let out another sigh—one of contentment this time—my body growing heavier the closer he gets to the couch.

I shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as I am. But I’m so used to him shutting me out and being grumpy and unreadable—aside from the brief flashes of teasing or flirting on the mountainside and in the theater. So I’m soaking in this rare moment, eating up his concerned, protective dominance and savoring the warmth and strength emanating from his body and enveloping mine.

He sets me down on the couch like I’ll shatter into millions of pieces if he jostles me too much. My back is against the arm, and my legs stretch out in front of me on the cushions. He grabs a pillow to place behind me before lowering me to a relaxed position and laying the plaid blanket from the back of the couch over me. He stays crouched next to the couch, arms crossed and resting on the cushions, watching and examining me with those gorgeous, piercing eyes of his.

I swallow and smooth out the blanket on my thighs. “I could do this exact same thing in my room.”

“If you’re out here, I can check on you easier,” he says. He brushes a wisp of hair out of my eyes, and his hand grazes my face, fingertips tracing along my cheekbone. Our gazes lock, and his touch lingers, the concern in his eyes softening his features and giving me a glimpse of the caring male beneath the grumpy, brooding, impassive shell. “I need to make sure—” He blinks and shakes his head, yanking his hand back to cover his mouth as he clears his throat, standing up from his crouched position. “I need to make sure you’re warm enough. I’ll get you another blanket.”

He turns and walks away, and I sit up straighter, throwing the blanket off me and swinging my legs over the edge of the couch. “Let me at least change my clothes.”

He whips around and points at me. “You’re staying right there.”

“Nolan, I’m fine. I want to get out of this dress and into something more comfortable, that’s all. I promise I will come right back to the couch.”

He stares at me, eyes narrowing. I lick my lips, and he raises a brow at me, crossing his arms. “You want clothing that’s more comfortable?” he asks, and I nod. His throat bobs and his nostrils flare, then his gaze turns inwards, his entire body growing tenser by the second as he wrestles with himself over something. “Here,” he says, grabbing his gray T-shirt by the back of the neck and peeling it over his head as he stalks towards me again. “Wear this.”

The shirt dangles between us, and I gape at him, eyes locked on his face even though they try to move down his torso to his pecs and abs and those V lines that disappear into his jeans.

“Take it,” he says, waving the T-shirt.

The hint of his spicy, cardamom scent wafts towards me, and I grab the shirt before I realize what I’m doing. It’s warm and soft and filled with his scent, and it takes everything in me to not bury my nose into the fabric and inhale.

“Thanks,” I say, hugging the shirt to my chest, right above my racing heart.

Can he hear it pounding in my chest? Is he aware of the effect he has on me?

The moment between us stretches like taffy, with neither of us saying anything or moving a muscle.

Except his eyes. His eyes scan me, flitting over every surface of my body, caring and kind and worried. His fingers twitch at his sides, his muscles tensing and relaxing, like he’s fighting the urge to move. That’s when his eyes land on his shirt in my hands, and he shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck and inhaling as he does.

He backs up a step, furthering the distance between us, the distance I don’t want to exist. “I’ll get that second blanket and let you change,” he says as he almost sprints out of the living room. “Let me know when you’re decent.”

I change into his shirt quickly, all the while overthinking his intentions. A male giving a female his shirt is not a casual gesture for werewolves and lycans. It’s viewed as a claim, as a staking of territory, a way to let others know we’re both off limits.

That can’t be what he means by giving it to me, right? We’re not anything to each other; I don’t think he even likes me very much. He’s so hot and cold—one minute he’ll be almost smiling at me, teasing me, and the next he’s closed off and brooding.

Then again, I have done little to endear myself to him. I’ve goaded him intentionally, trying to get some reaction from him, some glimmer of emotion other than grumpy and impassive.

And it’s worked. Although I don’t think he found the chips and the tulips as funny as I did, there was a definite reaction from him. He even teased me about it when I bumped into him on my run the other day.

I shouldn’t read too much into the shirt. But how can I not? Especially with how he’s so concerned for me right now, how he’s taking care of me and being overbearing yet sweet. It’s the perfect mix, the perfect balance of both—bossy enough to make me comply with his requests, but the intention behind it isn’t to be in charge of me but to take care of me and ensure I’m safe and well.

And it all adds to my confusion.

“Are you decent?”

Nolan’s voice drifts towards me from the hallway, and I scramble to cover my legs with the blanket, tugging it up over my hips and waist to make sure I’m covered before I settle back against the pillow he gave me. His warmth lingers on his shirt, and his scent is heavily embedded in the fibers, all of it acting like an imaginary embrace from him.

I can’t have his arms, so I suppose this will have to do.

“Yes!” I say, resisting the urge to lift the collar and bury my nose in the fabric of his shirt.

I can’t let him catch me doing that.

He reenters the living room, and the earth shifts, so he is the focus, the center, the axis of my existence. I’m drawn to everything about him—the buried pain, the brooding, the rare laughs that strike a chord in me whenever I draw one out of him. My attraction to him is more than physical—although, that does play a part. It’s everything. All of him. He’s perfectly imperfect, and I want to be perfectly imperfect with him.

I shouldn’t fall for him. But it’s too late. I haven’t just fallen; I’ve leapt off the cliff and into the abyss, without knowing if he’ll catch me at the bottom.

“Here,” he says, setting a glass of water on the end table I moved the other day before unfurling another blanket—heavier, thicker, and fluffier than the fleece travel blanket he covered me with when he first brought me into the living room.

Sitting still as he lays the blanket over me is almost impossible. His hands float across my body, skimming my hips and thighs as he tucks it in tighter, creating a little cocoon for me to snuggle into. My lycan watches him with me, taking great interest in his fussing, and I can’t help but smile a little as he ensures I’m comfortable and secure and warm.

He fluffs my pillow behind me, then hands me the glass of water as he perches on the edge of the loveseat cushion, elbows resting on his knees and hands clasped in front of him. He’s still shirtless, and all I can focus on is his smooth, smoky quartz skin shining in the dimming sunlight, just like the polished stone it resembles. And I finally have time to examine the tattoo above his heart—an exact match of the sketch of the lakeshore he has in his kitchen, the same as the tattoo I know Alpha Wesley has on his biceps.

“You need to drink it,” Nolan says, lips twitching with a subtle laugh, his chin jutting towards the glass in my hand.

I flinch and blush, realizing he caught me staring at him, and I take a sip, covering my face with the glass as I do and praying there wasn’t any drool on my chin.

After several long drinks, I set the glass back on the end table. Only half of it is left—I was thirstier than I realized—and I stare at it, watching the little rainbow of light the sun creates through it on the wall, avoiding Nolan’s eyes. I feel them on me, though. Like every other time he watches me, his eyes are an intense touch against my skin, heating my blood and awakening my soul.

“You moved my table,” he says, breaking our silence.

I grimace. “I should have asked first. But I kept bumping into the corner of it, and I was so annoyed, so I just… did it.”

“It looks better there.” I whip my head towards him, brows raised and eyes wide. That wasn’t what I expected him to say. I expected to be berated, like with the chips and the tulips. “I bumped into it all the time too,” he admits.

“Why not move it then?” I ask.

He rubs the back of his neck and gives me a sheepish smile. “I didn’t think about it.”

“So you just kept walking into it but never thought to move it somewhere else?”

He shrugs and nods, chuckling at himself. “I realize how idiotic it sounds now that I’m telling you this. But it’s the truth. And I’m not a big fan of change. I like routine and predictability.”

My lips twitch. “I’ve noticed.”

He swallows and returns to his position with his elbows on his knees, watching me all the while, eyes scanning me with an earnestness that awakens fluttering moths in my stomach. I readjust so I’m reclining on the couch more, pulling the blankets higher and snuggling further into the plush pillow, biting back a sigh as the tension begins leaving my body.

“Tell me. Honestly. Is everything all right?” he asks.

He’s switched back to bossy, grumpy Nolan, his voice leaving no room for argument or lying, but there is an undertone of worry in him. It lingers in his voice, swirls in his eyes, and settles into his posture. He won’t relax until I reassure him.

Something else I don’t quite know what to make of.

This must all be in my head. I’ve stepped into some sort of alternate dimension. Or the use of my ability drained me more than I realized, and I’ve started to hallucinate. Or I fell asleep on our way back to Crescent Lake, and this is all just a fever dream I’ve conjured up because of my unrequited feelings for Nolan, because of the pent-up lust that has found no outlet.

I push those notions away and nod. “I’m fine. Now.”

“What happened? Is that normal? For you to be this exhausted? For your ability to drain you this much?”

He leans forward more with each question, his frown lines etching deeper into his face. I squirm and fidget with the blanket, confused and uncertain about the shift in his attitude towards me. I want to believe it’s real and not in my head, but between my exhaustion and the mixed signals and so many unknown factors, so many unanswered questions—like the yellow diamond ring left on his table the day I arrived—there is no way for me to know what to believe. All I can do is hope, which is also dangerous.

“I absorbed her aura too quickly,” I say, dropping the blanket from my hands and propping myself up with my elbow. “I wasn’t prepared for how much of it she was giving off or for how strong it is.”

“Isn’t that something you would have practiced in your training? Making sure you pace yourself?”

“Yes, but remember, Haven’s aura is unique. One of a kind. Just like her. No one with my ability has ever encountered anything quite like it. I assumed it would feel similar to an alpha aura. I was wrong. Very wrong.”

He nods, and his jaw works as his mind processes my words. “Is it too much for you?”

“No!” I shake my head and run my hand through my ponytail before propping myself up again. “It’s not too much for me. It was just the first time I absorbed it, and I took too much of it in too quickly, like I said. That’s all. Now that I know, I’m better prepared for next time. I’ll pace myself properly so I don’t wear myself out. I’ll probably ask her to help me practice a bit, too.”

“Good,” he says, sitting up straight and rubbing his hand over his short hair as he relaxes back into his seat. “Because I don’t want this to happen again.”

I swallow and drop my hand to the pillow, blinking, a tiny worm of doubt wriggling into my heart. “What?”

“You wearing yourself out like this while doing your job. It can’t happen again. We can’t allow that risk,” he says, the words leaving him with no hesitation or emotion. Just straight facts, pure honesty.

I flinch back, his statement a slap in the face and a stark reminder of all I am to him and the only things I ever will be—a coworker. An inconvenience. The unexpected speed bump in his daily routine.

I shouldn’t have let hope bloom. But I did it anyway. I let the shirt mean more than it did, and I read too much into all our interactions, thinking his concern for me was because he desired me, because he thought of me as something more.

Because I yearn for more.

Silly me. I know better. But hope is dangerous and addictive.

Just like Nolan.

“Well, like I said, it won’t be a problem,” I say, rolling over to face the back of the couch, finally feeling the weight of it all—the exhaustion from earlier, his unintentional rejection, and my reality that I keep forgetting.

“Cassandra—”

“I’m going to sleep,” I say, cutting him off as I burrow further into the pillows and under the blankets. “I’ll let you know if I need something.”

It’s a lie. I won’t let him know. I wouldn’t even stay here on the couch, except my bones are lead and my brain is spaghetti, and all I want to do is fall asleep and forget this conversation, forget the last hour, forget how I thought there could be something deeper between us. Something real. Something special.

His scent from the shirt I wear wraps around me, trapped inside by the weight and warmth of the blankets, and I bite my lip against the pang of pain in my heart, squeezing my eyes shut against the itching of swelling emotions. He lingers on the loveseat for longer than he should, longer than needed, longer than should be legal.

And only when his footsteps fade as he climbs the stairs do I let my tears fall.