Page 57 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
He owes me a favor, and I want to make sure Marigold isn't taken advantage of. I’d still want her to have her independence in going in and picking what she desires and could be in her range in the finances department, but I wouldn’t let the typical salesmen try to take advantage.
"Let me know if you'd like a second opinion. Cars are..." I pause, searching for words that won't sound condescending. "They can be complicated."
"Thank you." Her voice is soft, genuine. "I appreciate that."
We drive in silence for a while, the headlights carving a path through the darkness.
The road winds gently through the countryside, fields stretching out on either side, occasionally interrupted by clusters of trees or isolated farmhouses.
It's a route I've driven countless times, but tonight it feels different — charged with an electric current that flows between the driver's seat and the passenger's side.
From the corner of my eye, I notice her fidgeting.
Her fingers drum a silent rhythm against her thigh, then move to smooth nonexistent wrinkles from her dress. She crosses her legs, then uncrosses them.
Shifts her weight from one hip to the other. Each movement sends a fresh wave of her scent through the car — that intoxicating blend of vanilla and something uniquely her, underscored by a subtle note that makes my instincts sharpen to razor focus.
I crack my window slightly, desperate for fresh air, for any dilution of the effect she's having on me.
"Are you cold?" she asks immediately, concerned.
"No." The word comes out clipped.Too harsh.I soften my tone. "No, just needed some air. The car gets stuffy."
She nods and turns her face toward her own window, but not before I catch the flush spreading across her cheeks. It's not embarrassment — I've seen that on her before, a delicate pink that rises from her throat.
This is different. Deeper. More primal.
My grip on the steering wheel tightens until my knuckles whiten.
That flush, combined with her restlessness and the subtle change in her scent...I've been around enough unmated omegas to recognize the early signs.
Not full Heat —not yet— but the precursor. The body is preparing itself. Sometimes it happens when an omega encounters compatible chemistry, especially after a period of suppression or isolation.
Concern floods through me, temporarily overwhelming desire.
If she's entering pre-Heat, she needs to be somewhere safe. Not in a car with an unmated man whose body is already responding to her on the most basic level. Not in a small town where gossip travels faster than light.
Not when she's still finding her footing after everything she's been through.
I should say something.
Warn her.
But how do I broach that subject without sounding presumptuous? Without making her uncomfortable?
Without revealing how acutely aware I am of her biology?
She shifts again in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest as if suddenly self-conscious. Her head tilts slightly, exposingthe elegant line of her neck where her pulse visibly flutters beneath the skin.
The sight sends a jolt through me, a primal response to an unconscious invitation.
The urge to leave a hickey along her flesh…to mark her like she’s destined to be mine.
Shit.
I force my eyes back to the road, hands gripping the wheel so hard I fear it might crack beneath my fingers. My body throbs in response to her proximity, to the signals she's unknowingly broadcasting.
"The heater in this car is temperamental," I say, desperate to fill the silence with something —anything—normal. "Let me know if you're too warm or cold."
