Page 17 of The Gamma's Second Chance

I smile and I swear he almost does, too. “Okay. So, agreement number one: don’t be a dickhead.”

“We should write this down,” he says, sitting up straighter and glancing around his kitchen, drumming the table with his hands.

He bolts from his chair and grabs a permanent marker next to a grocery list on the counter, then he clicks his tongue as he spins in place, searching for something. “Do you have a piece of paper?”

“No.”

His eyes land on my book. They flick up to mine and I shake my head. “Don’t you dare.” My voice is low, and I release a small growl, my lycan rising to her full height in my mind, now on alert.

He reconsiders for maybe half a second, then he lunges forward and grabs my book off the table before I can snatch it away to safety. “Nolan!” I shriek, jumping up and rushing over to him. “Stop!”

He sidesteps me and turns, lifting the book as high as he can on the dining room wall. He opens it to the title page, pen poised over the paper, and I jump, clawing at his arm to get him to stop. But he’s a massive wall of grumpy, unmoving muscle, and I’m a gnat crashing into the stones, body smashed upon impact.

And none of it matters. I watch as on the cream paper underneath the title and the author’s name, he writes, “Agreement #1: don’t be a dickhead.”

“That’s Haven’s book,” I say, taking it back from him after he closes it again.

The color drains from his face. Ice-cold terror runs through his body. His jaw goes slack, and his heart skips a beat as he glances at the now-defaced book in my hand and then back at me, his horror with himself rising. “Shit, is it really?”

It’s a low blow. But even in the short time I’ve known him, I’ve seen how important his luna is to him, not just as his alpha’s mate and a leader of his pack, but as a friend and a member ofhis family. He treats her with the utmost respect and puts her before himself.

My lips curl into a smile, and I laugh, leaning back against the wall, tilting my head up, and squeezing my eyes shut. “No, but you should see your face right now.”

His brows are raised, and his arms are crossed when I lower my head again. He leans in closer, one hand bracing himself against the wall as he towers over me, encroaching on my personal space with nowhere for me to escape to with the wall pressed against my back.

“Yeah, I didn’t think Haven would be the type to read,”—he glances down at the book cover and then his eyes flick back to me—“‘Seducing the Mafia King.’” My face heats and I press my lips together. “What’s it even about?”

I swallow and lick my lips, hugging the book to my chest with one hand, pressing the other against the wall for balance, and lifting my chin. I won’t be intimidated by him and his imposing presence and his grumpy attitude. And I won’t be ashamed of what I enjoy reading. “Exactly what it sounds like.”

“Pure smut?”

I gape at him, and it’s his turn to laugh, the first time I’ve truly heard the sound from him. Or a genuine one, at least. It’s a deep, rich, hearty sound that vibrates my bones and echoes in my ears. The laugh hums through my veins, like the smooth, resonant notes on a cello, ensnaring the attention of my lycan. Her ears flick forward, and she stares at him through my eyes, assessing him.

It’s a beautiful sound, but it disappears all too quickly as he inhales sharply. His face shutters, and he pushes off the wall and spins away from me, heading out of the room. He takes his heat with him, leaving me with another chill running through my body, this one caused by the growing distance and his guarded,storm cloud aura he’s snapped back into place. He fortifies it with each step, with each inch of space he puts between us.

“I’ll see you in the morning for Haven’s rehearsal,” he says as he reaches the archway, where he pauses before he glances at me over his shoulder, that surly, almost cold look back in his eyes, the glimpse he gave me of the real Nolan nowhere to be found. “And Cassandra?”

My fingers scrape against the beige wall, and I clutch my book tighter to my chest at the sound of his throaty voice saying my name. Even with the coldness in his eyes, there is a flicker of heat behind his words, and my breath hitches in my chest. “Yes?”

His head swivels until his line of sight ends on the flowers on the table. They stay there, unmoving. His hand grips the archway tighter with each of his inhales, his nostrils flaring once before he finally meets my eyes again.

“Don’t put any daisies in my room.”

Sleep came easily. Notsurprising. I’d forced myself to stay awake my first night here, trying to adjust my inner clock to the time zone. By the time I collapsed into the bed in my guest room last night, my eyes closed on their own, and I’m pretty sure I fell asleep the second my head hit the pillow.

I must have been more tired than I thought because I slept later than I meant to. When I woke up, the sunlight was already streaming in through the not-quite-closed curtain. Isped through my routine to get ready, throwing on the first dress I could find in my suitcase—a knee-length purple one—and then came out here to the kitchen to grab breakfast.

A quick glance at the clock tells me I don’t have time to cook something from scratch, so I settle for fresh fruit with honey and a small container of yogurt. I would eat the leftovers of my spinach pie from yesterday morning, but it mysteriously disappeared from the fridge, the dish washed and resting in the drying rack next to the sink. I giggle to myself and shake my head as I stroll through the house, eating my yogurt and fruit.

Nolan’s home is clean and organized and very… bland. Beige. Beige and brown. Beige walls, brown furniture. Beige blankets and pillows in the living room. And—

“Fuck!” I grab my thigh, just above my knee, glaring down at the brown, square end table next to his couch. The sharp corner winks at me, teasing me, jutting out into the pathway like the most dangerous obstacle in the world.

I wince and skirt around it, frowning at it the entire journey into the room. I forgot it was there, even after I bumped into it twice when I brought the daisies in to put on the piano yesterday morning.

Absently, I rub at the spot where another bruise forms on top of the almost-healed one from yesterday as I make my way over to the piano. The daisies smile at me, and I lean in, cupping one with my hand and brushing my nose against it, inhaling its light scent. My eyes close and I sigh, a faint smile painting my lips.

There’s something so calming about daisies. All flowers, really, but especially daisies. They brighten a room and illuminate the darkest, most shadowed corners of my soul. They breathe life into everything, bringing peace and a forgiveness that mends the broken pieces.

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