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“She’s my—” Lowe’s hand jerks up to clutch Max’s jaw. “Apologize to my wife.”
“If you come with me, Misery, you’ll have to be marked.”
“Mine.” It’s a rumble in his throat. “You smell like you’re mine, Misery.”
“You think, but you don’t know. You don’t know anything about what it’s like to find your other half,” he continues, voice low and sharp. “I would take anything she chose to give me—the tiniest fraction or her entire world. I would take her for a single night knowing that I’ll lose her by morning, and I would hold on to her and never let go. I would take her healthy, or sick, or tired, or angry, or strong, and it would be my fucking privilege. I would take her problems, her gifts, her moods, her passions, her jokes, her body—I would take every last thing, if she chose to give it to me.”
“Of all the good things I’ve felt in my fucking life, you are the best.”
“The sheets.” “Why?” “They smelled like you.”
He watches me slip into the passenger seat and then leans forward, one hand on the door and the other on the roof of the car.
I bury my face in my hands and Lowe stands from the hood of the car, coming to massage my shoulders in this moment of desperate need.
“It smells a lot like you,” he says. His voice is hushed, eyes glassy and unfocused. “More than your room in my house. More…layers.” He wets his lips. “Give me a second to get used to it.”
your scent is shooting up my brain
He shakes his head, eyes burning into mine. “You’re not a problem, Misery. You’re a privilege.”
