Page 29 of The Gamma's Second Chance

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 theentrance. “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.

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