Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Chloe

B lood rushes to my head as I lie upside down on the couch, my legs thrown over the back and my head dangling off the cushions. The blank screen open on the laptop on the floor taunts me, the blinking cursor a silent demand for me to work on the plot of my next series.

It's been two days since I left the Homestead. Forty-eight long hours of avoiding Holden's soft hazel eyes and Blake's tempting embrace. I bite my lip, remembering how they felt pressed against Blake's.

The Alphas are a distraction I need to avoid right now. The tangled mess of my life doesn't need any more complications.

My phone lies on the desk, turned off after a dozen text messages from my mom flooded in. I gave up blocking her numbers. She keeps getting around it.

How can she afford so many burner phones but not her bills?

Cheeks puffing out, I blow a raspberry at my laptop before turning my head toward the kitchen area, where clean to-go containers sit on the coffee table. Holden had packed them with his delicious cake, which I binged on instead of proper food the next morning, and now they need to be returned. But doing so risks running into him or Blake.

My pulse quickens at the thought, and my stomach twists with longing and anxiety.

"Come on, Chloe." I hold my hands up on either side of my face, blocking my peripheral vision so all I see is the laptop. "Focus, focus, focus."

My mind refuses to function, my thoughts bouncing all over the place. I close my eyes and take a deep, meditating breath, but the voices inside my head refuse to shut up.

This isn't working. I swish my head from side to side, my long, pink hair sweeping over the knotted rug under the couch.

The sensation makes me dizzy as all the blood fills my head and does little to jog loose inspiration. The only thing I want to write is my baker elf smut, but I locked that file until seven o'clock tonight to force myself to do real work.

An email alert dings from my laptop's speakers.

Grateful for the distraction, I reach out and toggle to my inbox, where I find a message from my publisher.

I hesitate to open it. All communication is supposed to go through Grady, but every so often, they skip him to contact me directly, and it's rarely a good thing.

Since book four, they've been trying to convince me to switch to an in-house agent, claiming it will make things run smoother, which I read as more exclusive. They won't accept that Grady and I are ride or die. I will never replace him, even if they promise a five percent increase in the share of my royalties.

I want to delete the message without reading it, but my inner paranoia demon whispers that it could be important.

Catching my bottom lip between my teeth, I click open.

Dear Ms. Richardson,

Congratulations on your success with How a Dragon Stole the Fairy's Heart (and Her Tiara) . Readers are raving about the final book in your series, The Fairy and the Dragonlord. We are eager to jump on this momentum by announcing your next big project.

I have spoken with our marketing team, and we are offering a $400,000 advance to lock in the first three books…

I swallow hard, my throat constricting as if invisible hands are tightening around my neck.

Another trilogy in that universe would pay off all my mom's debts, but at what cost? And for how long? If I give in now, she'll just rack up new debt and never stop dangling Louie over me like a sinister puppet master.

I grip the throw pillow resting on my stomach, my fingers aching with the pressure.

Memory dredges up the last time I saw Louie and the terror he instilled in me. The scent of his pheromones in my lungs, like poisonous almonds and anise. He had tried to imprison me until my Heat came, eager to imprint his Mark on my nape.

My hand moves to the back of my neck, tracing the smooth skin as a reminder that he failed.

Even though Louie is registered as my Alpha, without his Mark, we remain locked in a terrifying courting phase. As long as I keep paying down my mother's debt, he allows me freedom. But that will change if the money ever stops.

A violent shiver wracks my body, and I hug the pillow tighter.

More than once, I've gone online to break our arrangement, but doing so will put my mother in danger. Despite the toxicity of our relationship, I can't bear the thought of her being hurt when I have the means to stop it.

A knock at the door yanks me from my thoughts, the sudden sound sending my heart pounding.

Startled, I lose my balance, tumbling off the couch and onto the floor with a thud. My head spins as I struggle to regain my bearings, cursing my decision to lie upside down for so long.

"Chloe?" Blake's worried voice filters through the door, bringing an instant sense of comfort and safety. "Are you okay?"

I scramble to my feet, my bangs falling into my eyes as I reach for the doorknob. The cool metal beneath my fingers helps ground me as I swing the door open, revealing Blake standing on the porch, holding a linen bag. Today, he wears another soft flannel, this one green, and his brown hair sits in a messy bun on top of his head.

His concerned gaze sweeps over me, taking in my disheveled appearance. "Hey, are you all right? Your face is pinker than usual."

"Uh, yeah." I pat my cheeks. "I was trying to force blood to my brain to jog loose the plot fairy."

Blake's lips quirk into a small smile, the shift in his expression revealing sparkles of glitter caught in his beard. "Did it work?"

"Not really." I blow out a frustrated breath before glancing down at the bag he holds. "What's this?"

He lifts it. "You haven't been up to the Homestead, so I brought you a little something."

"Thank you." When I take the bag from him, our fingers brush one another, and my stomach tightens at how warm and strong his hands are compared to mine.

"Anytime." He leans against the open doorway. "It was just an excuse for me to make sure you're doing all right. Holden packed you a bunch of new desserts he's been experimenting with."

Guilt fills me, and I swallow hard, unsure how to respond.

Part of me wants to let Blake in, to share what's going on with me, but another part of me fears where it might lead. Blake is already too tempting, and I worry I'm growing too attached to him and Holden.

"Um, yeah," I say lamely, looking down at the bag of treats. "Just been… busy."

"Right." His gaze sweeps over me, lingering on my frog onesie. "Cute outfit."

"Thanks." I blush, both pleased and embarrassed by the compliment.

He reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, sending sparks of awareness through me. "Holden was worried you were starving down here."

"Starving?" My eyes dart toward the kitchen. "I have plenty of food."

"I know. I stocked your pantry." Blake's fingers trail over my cheek, sending tingles down my spine. "But you deserve something with more nutrition than instant noodles and canned soup."

Desire, temptation, and longing swirl within me. Part of me knows Alphas are driven to take care of Omegas, while my mind whispers that this magnetic connection between us is special. As much as I want to indulge in the sweet ache of our attraction, it's dangerous territory.

"Well, it's a good thing I have better food, then." I step back before I give in to the urge to lean into his touch. "If you'll wait a second, I'll grab the clean containers I have."

The weight of his gaze follows me into the kitchen, where I unload the new containers into the fridge. Moving to the dining table, I place the empty ones into the linen bag.

When I turn back to him, Blake still leans against the doorway, respecting that I didn't invite him to enter. "So, why haven't you come up to the Homestead for dinner the last couple of days?"

Despite his nonchalant tone, concern fills his eyes. "Did we do something to upset you?"

"No!" I rush back to stand in front of him, twisting the handle of the bag in my hands. "You've both been perfect gentlemen. And I'm not that afraid of Sprinkles," I add before he worries it's because of his giant dog.

His gaze gentles. "Did something else upset you?"

"No." I avoid his eyes. "It's just…writer stuff."

"Which requires you to hang upside down?" he teases gently.

I glance toward my computer screen, chewing on my lip. "A lot of the creative process involves staring at nothing, actually."

"Sounds rough," he says. "I can't imagine what it takes to come up with such complicated stories and then interpret your ideas so other people can understand. It's why I never took design classes in school. My mind doesn't work like that."

"Mine doesn't work like that, either." Blood creeps into my cheeks. "Pretty sure, if someone drew the buildings I describe, they'd be complete disasters."

He chuckles. "What do you usually do when you're stuck?"

"Binge-read or watch a show to refill the creative well," I confess, shrugging. "But I'm not in the mood for reading, and there's no TV here, which I thought was a good idea, since it would force me to focus on writing, but I forgot about the time when I'm not working…"

Realizing I'm rambling, I trail off and puff out my cheeks at the TV-less cabin.

"The Homestead has a media room," Blake points out casually. "We never watched that movie the other night."

No, after the message from my mom, I hadn't been in the mood and left soon after dessert.

The reminder flusters me, and the bag slips from my hands, the containers clattering as they spill out.

"Oh, no." I drop to the floor, shoving the containers back into the bag.

"Here, let me help." Blake crouches and reaches for a circular container that rolls away, our fingers brushing, a jolt of electricity going straight to my core.

My breath catches, and I fumble with the bag again, almost spilling them all over again.

"Did I overstep?" Blake's eyes search mine. "Are you avoiding coming up for dinner, so we don't run into each other? If that's the case, I won't come down during mealtimes."

"No!" I rush to reassure him, my heart pounding. "I enjoy your company, Blake."

The moment the words escape, I realize I should have gone along with it and removed myself from temptation.

"Good." He leans forward to capture my mouth in a searing kiss that leaves me breathless and wanting more.

Before I can give in to the desire to yank him farther into the cabin, Blake pulls back.

He takes the bag from my slack fingers and rises to head for the door. "Come up to the Homestead tomorrow. Holden's making caramel apple pie."

I remain sitting on the floor, lips stinging from his beard and my pheromones filling the air.

"Best of luck with your writer's block," Blake calls over his shoulder, leaving me alone in my cozy little cabin with the lingering scent of smoked applewood and cider.

My tongue sweeps over my lips before I grab my laptop and stand to stumble over to the desk, where I fall into the chair.

Desire, temptation, and longing coil inside me like a storm, threatening to drown me.

My hands shake as I close my email and change the clock to past seven, tricking my program into letting me back into my smut document.

Where inspiration refused to come for work, it flows now, the words pouring from my fingers, my characters coming to life, indulging in the pleasures I denied myself.