Chapter 6
WREN
I woke up shivering, covered in cold sweat, a nightmare of running through a blackout alley still clinging to me — icy ground under bare feet, footsteps closing in behind, Dane's hoodie the only thing between me and the cold.
Kicking away the damp towel, I dragged the comforter around myself and clutched the actual hoodie to my chest.
My toes were freezing — cold like a dog's nose, Milo's old trick for checking.
The heat must have made me more sensitive to the chill than usual.
The closet held only folded sheets and old shoeboxes. No spare blanket.
I couldn't stand the thought of putting on real clothes, so I wrapped the hoodie tighter and crept out to search the living room.
Nothing on the sofa, nothing behind it.
I was eyeing the curtains, seriously considering tearing them down, when the floor creaked.
"Wren?"
Dane stood in the archway in nothing but loose pajama pants.
I clutched the hem of the hoodie — his hoodie, which I hadn't actually asked to borrow. Shit.
"I'm sorry."
"Why? You okay?"
"Yeah. Didn't wake you, did I?"
"No, it's past ten. I'm about to head down." He frowned, studying me. "You're cold."
I nodded, biting my lip, wondering if he'd noticed the hoodie yet.
"Let's look at your radiator."
I followed him to the guestroom, awkwardly aware of being bare under the hoodie.
He crouched by the radiator, and I realized the room really was colder than the rest of the apartment.
"It's on max, but it's still freezing in here." His voice had gone tight, shoulders tense — my scent, probably.
He ran a hand along the windowpane and winced. "The draft's ice-cold. Christ, Wren, I'm sorry, you should've said something."
"The frame's useless against this weather — window's basically cracked open. I never use this room, I had no idea."
He disappeared and came back with duct tape and an armful of fleece blankets, plus a pair of thick socks he handed me.
I couldn't help staring at the sheer size of him — scars thickening across one shoulder and down his pectoral, a thick, dark happy trail disappearing into his waistband.
He taped along the window frame, rolled a blanket over the sill, and stood back with his palms toward the window, checking his work like he could feel the draft with his hands alone.
"Looks terrible, I know. Best I can do for now."
"If it doesn't help, we'll swap — you take my room."
"You might not tolerate clothes at all once the heat's in full swing, and you need to stay warm." He draped another blanket over my shoulders, and for a second he filled my whole world, holding it under my chin, staring down at me.
I trembled for reasons that had nothing to do with cold.
I leaned in without meaning to and breathed him in.
Dane jerked back like I'd burned him.
"I found the hoodie in the kitchen," I blurted. "I should've asked."
"Keep it," he said, already backing toward the door, a tense smile on his face.
"Let me know if the window helps."
"Thank you, Dane."
"No problem."
He was gone.
I curled up under every layer I had, warmth finally catching up to me, and I was asleep again before I even heard the front door close behind him.
* * *
Another wave woke me that afternoon, long and intense, leaving me hollow even with the knot at maximum.
I was still wearing his hoodie, and the knowledge that it had touched his skin mattered more than the discomfort of fabric against mine.
I closed my eyes and let myself imagine it was him instead of silicone — his weight, his warmth, his voice low against my ear.
The longing closed up my throat. This was what wanting someone felt like. Not just any Prime — him.
Specifically him. Scary, but nice too.
I understood now why he'd said no that first night — he didn't want to use me, and that was exactly why I wanted him.
But would he still say no if he knew I wanted him for real, heat or not?
When the knot finally went down, I forced myself up, showered, and ate a banana in the kitchen, legs wobbling, slick smearing my thighs.
I hauled water, more bananas, crackers, and protein bars back to my room in exhausting trips, my legs shaking so badly by the last one that I had to brace against the wall.
Coming out of the bathroom, I walked straight into Dane's chest.
He'd just come up from the pub — jeans, flannel, the ghost of beer and coffee on him, and underneath that, musk and sweat.
The scent paralyzed me.
My nipples pebbled, want pulsing low and insistent, and I felt myself go slick right there in the hallway.
The outline of his shoulders, the shadow of stubble along his throat, the furrow between his eyebrows — I stood there gaping at him like I'd never seen a man before in my life.
He can smell that. He knows.
His eyes went dark, jaw tight, nostrils flaring.
I made a small, needy sound I didn't mean to make, imagining his hands on me, needing him to touch me, to fill the ache splitting me open.
Please. Just grab me. Please.
"Sorry," he said, and was gone before I could blink.
I stumbled to the guestroom and rode the knot until I nearly passed out, imagining it was him underneath me, him groaning, him spilling into me while he held my gaze.
When it was over I lay there curled around a pillow that still smelled faintly of him, wanting him so badly my eyes burned, wondering how many more days of this I could survive before I lost my mind completely.