Page 25 of Strawberry Moon

18

Archer

Ford’s hand skimmed down my arm, light, nothing like the hard grip I’d been expecting when he’d reached for me. When he got to my wrist, he wrapped his huge fingers around it, easily circling its diameter and just... holding it.

After a long, silent moment, his thumb brushed against my pulse point, and everything in the universe narrowed down to that point of contact.

His callused fingers brushed against the sensitive skin inside my wrist, catching like a satisfyingly scratchy washcloth. I had to focus, not to think of a few other itches he could scratch.

Gah, I was sick, wasn’t I?

My grandfather had destroyed this man’s life, murdered his wife and child, and my whole interest in him kept boiling down to this: I was attracted to him.

He was exactly the opposite of every man I’d ever dated. I’d always been looking for someone like my grandfather, poised and confident and well-groomed to the point of looking like a model, and for what? For murdering innocent werewolves.

And then there was Ford, in his worn old jeans and faded flannel, artless stubble, and hair that looked like he’d forgotten to bother cutting it for weeks. There was nothing like my grandfather about him.

Was that the whole reason I found him attractive?

A hint of a scent hit my nose, something warm and sexy and—I knew the scent of Ford, and it wasn’t that. It was...

Us.

It was the scent of Ford holding my wrist. His earthy masculine smell mixed with the sickly sweet smell of an omega coming off a three-day energy drink bender. And somehow, it worked.

Sweet.

Like freaking cotton candy.

I’d spent weeks trying to find a synthetic scent that didn’t offend alphas, basing my search on nature, when omegas were what appealed to alphas, and I smelled like a fucking sugar coma. Something to consider when I got back to—

Ford’s thumb chafed my wrist again, like he knew that my mind was drifting, and it pulled me right back into the moment. Into the scent of him mixing with the scent of me and drifting away smelling like sex.

Like Ford stepping in behind me, pressing himself along the back of me in a hot line, wrapping his enormous body around me and holding me tight. Close. Safe.

Loved.

But Ford hated me.

Right?

He did step in. He didn’t wrap his arms around me, didn’t hold me close or nuzzle my neck the way I would have died for just then. But he leaned into me and whispered. “I’m sorry. I’m just... always angry. I can’t seem to stop.”

Angry. Not sad.

I mean, yeah, I was sure he was sad, obviously, but the first emotion that came to his tongue was angry. Angry like an uncontrolled alpha.

How much of Ford’s hatred for me stemmed from that?

Not that the Sterling name deserved any better than hate, but maybe, just maybe... maybe it wasn’t the only thingIdeserved. Maybe it wasn’t the only thing Ford felt, but those alpha instincts, unchecked, were leading him more than it seemed.

He’d always seemed so in control of himself, I’d mostly written off the idea that he might be struggling the way Cliff was.

I turned back to face him, careful not to shake his grip on my wrist, needing that point of contact like I needed to breathe. “Andy and I went to college together. He’s... he’s trying to help me make this better. To force the board to take action. I didn’t mean to make anyone uncomfortable bringing him here. He’s worried about me, and his wife is even worse. She made him promise to force three meals on me today.” I wasn’t sure why I needed Ford to know Andy was married, but I slipped it in there anyway.

“And why is he worried about you?” Ford asked, reaching up with his free hand to swipe a thumb across my cheekbone.

I bit my lip. I didn’t want to make myself out to be a victim here. I wasn’t the one Sterling had hurt. “It’s my fault. I forget to eat when I’m busy. I should do better.”

---