Page 30 of The Gamma's Second Chance

“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 letyou 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?”

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