Page 67 of Heat Lightning

I gave a snort of derision and wiped my nose. “How else am I supposed to interpret that?”

“Well,” Owen said gently. “It really isn’t for me to say either way. But based on his past actions, like taking you to the shelter while you were in heat despite already having formed a bond, I could imagine a scenario in which telling you the full extent of the suppressants could feel coercive or manipulative. It’s not really a choice you get to make of your own accord if he’s making you feel like his life is at stake, is it?”

I shook my head. “But if his life is at stake, it’s dishonest to not share the full picture.”

Owen cocked his head back and forth. “The situation isn’t great, either way. Honestly, if he’s a safe person for you to have a conversation with, I recommend you do that. Clear the air. It might help you in making a decision.”

After a deep breath, I stood. “Thank you for answering my questions.”

He cringed. “I don’t usually say this, but I’m not sure I was much help to you. I’m sorry.”

“No, you were. Really. Thank you.”

And he was. He’d shown me that spending a heat with anyone else wasn’t an option. My omega had chosen—and it was my omega, the real one, not some artificial, fake feeling forced on me—and it wanted the Masked Man.

I just had to decide what to do about that, and figure out if he felt the same.

As if to match my restless thoughts, a brewing storm chased us all the way home.

The air outside was heavy and thick, and churning clouds hung low over the bay. Almost unnaturally still, it was like the hushed neighborhood held its breath, waiting to see what the building thunderheads unleashed.

This was my favorite kind of weather. Charged and anticipatory, it made me want to huddle in close to wait out the threatening storm. I yearned for safety and comfort, and yet it also made my blood run hot and electric.

Nothing else had ever come close to that feeling, except for him.

The Masked Man was the perfect cocktail of safety and danger, like a lighthouse standing alone on a rocky shore during a November gale. Entirely singular, I craved him more than anyone or anything else.

Ever.

After that appointment, however, I couldn’t decide if it was a craving to punch him or kiss him.

Both. It was both.

Gwen and I were quiet on the drive home. I couldn’t shake thoughts of him from my mind. I wanted him to show me Joey couldn’t hurt me. I wanted him to tell me he wanted a heat with me, and not the rut suppressants or faceless omegas that hadn’t been enough for him.

Owen had confirmed something I’d suspected all along—I wanted the Masked Man. The circumstances we met under were horrible, and maybe if that hadn’t happened we never would’ve met at all, but even still, my attraction to him was real. Spending a heat together would be real.

Rejecting the bond would be real, too. My omega whined.

After waving goodbye to Gwen, I hurried down the path toward home. Mr. Marino had been called away at the last minute for business overseas and brought Enzo with him, so I had at least the next few days off.

That tingling, prickly feeling from earlier returned. The little hairs on my arms stood on end, like electricity charged the air.

Or like someone was watching me.

My blood sang when I thought of the latter. Clearly, my visit with the therapist hadn’t fixed whatever was wrong with me.

I cast around but found no hooded figures hiding in the shadows along the shoreline, only grass and trees whipping in the cold wind blowing off the lake.

Thunder rumbled. A raindrop splashed on my cheek. Then another, and another. Breaking into a jog, I tried to outrun the deluge and made it up the stairs and inside just as it really began to pour.

I quickly closed the door behind me, shaking out my damp hair. Lightning cracked, momentarily illuminating the dim living room.

And there stood the Masked Man, looming like a wraith conjured by the storm itself.

“Welcome home, sweetheart.”

SEVENTEEN