Page 59 of Meadowsweet and Marigold
I have to stop.
The realization prompts me to change course.
Instead of continuing straight towards the ranch that’s five minutes away, I make a turn that will take us behind the local pharmacy.
It's not the most direct route home, but it gives us options — and time for me to find the right words for the conversation we need to have.
I signal the turn at the last possible moment, earning a small gasp from Marigold as the car swings behind the pharmacy's squat brick building.
The lot back here is deserted — employee parking during business hours, but empty now save for a single dumpster squatting in the corner like a metal toad. The headlights sweep across blank asphalt before I cut the engine, plunging us into a darkness broken only by the distant glow of the street lamps from the main road and the faint illumination of the dashboard.
"Meadow?" Marigold's voice carries a note of confusion, perhaps concern. "Why are we stopping here?"
I don't answer immediately.
Can't answer.
My heart hammers against my ribs like something caged and desperate for freedom. Each beat sends blood rushing in my ears, drowning out rational thought. I focus on my breathing — in through the nose, out through the mouth. Slow and measured, a deliberate counterpoint to the chaos inside me.
The confined space of the car has become a pressure cooker. Her scent surrounds me, seeps into the fabric of my clothes, and burrows beneath my skin.
With the engine off, there's nothing to mask the sound of her breathing, slightly faster than normal. Nothing to distract from the subtle shift of fabric as she turns toward me in the darkness.
"Are you all right?" she asks, and I feel rather than see her lean closer.
I nod, still not trusting my voice.
My knuckles are white against the steering wheel, and I force myself to loosen my grip. To relax my shoulders.
To appear normal when everything inside me is screaming.
"Do you need something because you got hurt?" The genuine worry in her voice finally breaks through my silence.
I turn to face her, and it's a mistake. In the dim light, her features are softened, her eyes wide and concerned. But it's her lips that capture my attention — slightly parted, the lower onefuller than the upper, a perfect bow that begs to be traced with fingertips. With tongue.
Fuck…
"I'm not hurt," I manage to say, my voice rougher than I intend.Lower. Dep primal authority seeping through the cracks in my composure.
She doesn't pull back, doesn't retreat from the naked want that must be evident in my gaze. Instead, she tilts her head slightly, a questioning gesture that exposes the elegant column of her throat.
My focus shifts there, to the pulse point where her heartbeat visibly flutters beneath pale skin.
My Alpha instincts roar to life, demanding action.
Claim her. Mark her. Make her yours before someone else does.
I dig my nails into my palms, the sharp pain grounding me momentarily.
This isn't about me or what I want.
This is about her safety. Her well-being.
I need to remember that, to hold onto that truth like a lifeline in a storm.
"Marigold," I say, and her name feels sacred on my tongue. "I need to ask you something, and I'm sorry if it seems... inappropriate."
Her brow furrows slightly, a small vertical line appearing between her eyebrows.
