The Fake Mate(34)

I almost kissed Mackenzie.

It’s unreasonable, and definitely ill-advised, but for one singular moment, there had been no other thoughts in my head outside of the glaring need to feel her mouth on mine. Something about her scent affects me like a drug; not only do I crave more and more of it after each exposure, but I seem to lose all reason when I breathe her in.

I had thought that the distance we’ve had between the strange moment in my office and now would be enough time to collect myself, but being trapped like this in such a small space with her sweet aroma clouding around me brings back the same foreign urges that had struck me when I’d scented her the day before.

Is it really just because I’ve forgone suppressants? I mean, since I am altogether not as mated as we’ve led the hospital to believe, it would make sense for me to be distracted by many clashing scents in the hospital, given that there are a good number of female shifters working on my floor, not to mention the building as a whole.

So why is it only Mackenzie who seems to bother me like this?

“—are you even listening to me?”

I blink, remembering where I am, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter and flicking my eyes to the passenger seat, where Mackenzie is looking at me strangely. She’s wearing her hair down, the thick mass falling against one shoulder as she cocks her head at me. She’s wearing a long-sleeved dress that is slightly formfitting but blessedly nowhere near as much as her yoga clothes—not that it’s stopped me from wanting to look. I have definitely tried to make sure to keep my eyes on only the road since she got into the car.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “Just nervous.”

“Seriously, you don’t have to be,” she laughs. “I can’t even begin to explain to you what a jackpot you are in the eyes of Moira Carter. You actually could belong to some secret underground alpha biker gang, and she would tell you she thinks it’s absolutely delightful.”

“It seems like your grandmother is more concerned with you settling down in general rather than having any real preferences as to who you might do it with.”

Mackenzie is still smiling despite my concern. “It’s not like that, exactly. I think she worries about leaving me on my own. I was kind of a mess when I came to them—I mean, just your average preteen hormonal depression that made me into a bit of a mute for a few months, but . . . I don’t know. Even now that I’m an adult, she never stops worrying about me.”

“She wants to make sure you’re taken care of,” I muse.

“Mhm.” Mackenzie makes an amused sound. “Hasn’t quite come around to the novel idea that I can take care of myself.”

“If anyone could,” I murmur to no one.

I don’t see her smile, but I can feel it, I think.

“Good thing I’m bringing home a nice alpha to make sure my den is good and protected so that I can give him pretty babies while he gathers food.”

“Your gran’s ideal ending, I presume.”

“Yeah. Whatever. I know she means well.”

“I’ll be sure to convince her that you will have a very nice den. Only the finest chicken carcasses for my mate.”

Mackenzie barks out a laugh. “Oh my God. You made a joke! Was that your first one? Are you hurt in any way?”

“Always a delight, you are.”

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just kind of fun.”

I perk up as I make the next turn. “What is?”

“Seeing this side of Dr. Taylor.”

“Oh.” There’s an odd prickling in my chest, but that could just be her scent, which is still threatening to suffocate me. “Well. I’ve been practicing how not to be so, um . . .”

“Tense? Scary?”

“Sure,” I concur with a roll of my eyes. “For your grandmother.”

Mackenzie sits up in her seat, peering out the window as she gestures to the next house. “Well, let’s hope it paid off. That’s the place.”

I slow the car so I don’t miss the driveway, taking in the perfectly normal-looking ranch-style house in red brick. It probably shouldn’t be as formidable as it feels.

“Oh shit,” Mackenzie says.

Her mouth turns down into a frown, and there’s an uneasiness to her now as she regards me carefully. I catch her pressing her nose to her shoulder, and then her eyes meet mine with concern. “It’s faded.”

I can’t even pretend not to immediately catch her meaning. I noticed when she first climbed into the car, after all. I swallow heavily. “I know.”

I can tell she’s remembering the last time I scented her; her lips roll together and her lashes flutter, and even this is enough to make breathing a little harder.

“You should probably do the thing,” she says airily.

“The thing,” I parrot.

“You know . . .” Her nose wrinkles as she reaches to unbuckle her seat belt. “The thing.”

Something flushes under my collar, some prickling heat creeping into my chest as my throat tightens. It’s becoming a familiar sensation, this odd warmth that plagues me whenever I scent her—becoming more and more of a problem the longer I’m off suppressants. I can’t remember a single time in my life when it was this uncomfortable to be around a woman of my species.