Page 37 of Heat Lightning

Tonight, I turned it into twenty minutes.

I was stupid to think I could handle myself without extra medication. I’d deeply underestimated the effect it would have on me to scent him, to be in the same room as him.

For the first time in two years, he was within my grasp, and I’d walked away.

Again.

Leaving was only possible because of the suppressants. Not only did they dull the headaches, shakes, vomiting, and light-headedness that came with an unfulfilled rut, but also the incessant urge for him.

It was non-stop. What was he doing? Who was he talking to? Was he happy? Safe? Hydrated? Had he slept well the night before? Did he invite someone over to spend the night? Did he want them?

Would he ever want me?

My doctor said those thoughts weren’t what a healthy rut felt like.

Which, thank God, because if half the population wandered around this psychotic over another person, there’d be way more problems in the world. He said once the bond was either sealed or broken, all of that would settle into something far more manageable.

I really fucking hoped so.

I understood why Max didn’t trust me—I wouldn’t trust me, either. I also understood why the idea of a mate like me was completely out of the question for someone like him, someone bright and made to live life out in the open, to the fullest.

Even on my best days, I couldn’t give him that.

And I really had tried everything the rut specialist recommended before going to him. Breaking the bond was my last option, and if he didn’t agree…

I shook my head. I hoped he would, and soon. The doctor’s warning echoed in my head.

The suppressants are damaging your organs. Your liver enzymes have been elevated for too long. Any more, and the effects will be irreversible. Eventually, fatal. I’m sorry it’s come to this, but you need to address the root cause.

What the fuck was I supposed to do when the root cause was a bespeckled blonde whose freckles only appeared in the sun? How did I fix this when the solution was mating with a man who smelled like a bakery and ran away screaming when he saw me?

What exactly had his words been? Oh, yeah. Should I be falling all over myself for a psycho who crawls through people’s windows at night?

Of course it fucking stung, but he hadn’t chosen this. He hadn’t chosen me.

And he wasn’t wrong. I deserved it—especially for what I was about to do.

Pulling into my drive, my headlights were the only light source for half a mile at least. This side of the bay was far less populated. I was the only permanent resident in the area, but even if the neighbors had been home, I wouldn’t be able to see them.

Trees lined the large property, offering privacy from the road only to fall away at the sheer cliff that dropped off into the water below. There was no beach here, only Lake Superior’s waves slamming up against the earth.

The house itself was stunning. All warm pine and natural features, the midcentury modern home sprawled atop the cliff overlooking the bay, its low profile almost blending into the natural lines of the shore.

I parked in the garage and hurried inside. An interior decorator had done a good job of making the home feel lived in. The house stayed true to the midcentury modern style, with lots of cream furniture and pops of color to make it warm and cozy.

I rarely enjoyed it. The view I wanted wasn’t in my living room.

Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched along the entire lake-facing side of the house, even into the bedroom. I was sure the original architect imagined families curled up, watching the lake dance on beautiful summer days and gales blow in over the water on long winter nights.

Those things were nice, but they weren’t why I’d finally spent my father’s money on this giant, lake-front property two years ago.

I didn’t bother turning on the lights as I walked through the kitchen and down the hall, and I didn’t stop for my suppressants, either. I wanted to feel as much as I could for a little bit longer, before I had to empty myself again.

Shucking off my clothes in the laundry room, I threw on a pair of joggers, grabbed the sealed zip-lock bag from my backpack, and crashed into my favorite chair, pulled right up to the glass. My binoculars sat on the side table, at the ready. I took a deep breath and held them up to my face, adjusting the focus.

Lightning cracked in my veins.

Max’s bedroom lamp was still on. Curled under the duvet, the glow of his phone illuminated his lightly freckled face. His hair was all askew, like he’d pushed it off his forehead one too many times until it dried that way.