Page 11 of Meadowsweet and Marigold (EverAfter CozyXverse #1)

And he is definitely a complication — a widowed Alpha with a hardened heart and responsibilities that leave little room for anything else.

Marigold needs healing, not another source of pain.

The water beats a steady rhythm against his skin, but the tension within him refuses to dissolve.

His hand drifts down slowly, as if unsure, finally brushing across the hard planes of his abdomen.

The steam-laden air thickens with heat and want, his frustration steaming like a physical presence around him.

Meadow tries desperately to redirect his thoughts, but the memory of Marigold's scent is too strong — it crashes over him like a tide of honey-sweet wildflowers, drawing him under with no hope of escape.

A groan escapes his lips as his fingers curl around his hardened length, needing overtaking caution.

"This isn't right," he mutters deep in his chest, even as his hand begins to move with a knowing urgency. "She's wounded. Broken. She needs time..."

His breathing is ragged, words barely audible beneath the pounding water.

But his body, alive with awakened hunger, ignores the protest.

In his mind, Marigold isn't broken at all — she's magnificent and whole, a vision of strength that makes his heart race. He imagines her small frame pressed snug against his, her poised, ballet-trained body arching with a grace that leaves him breathless.

Her emerald silk hair — how would it look darkened by the shower spray, slick and clinging to her porcelain skin?

His strokes become more insistent, driven by the intoxicating images.

In this private fantasy, she's willing and eager, her Omega nature responding fully to his Alpha call.

He pictures her bending forward, his large hand circling gently yet possessively around her delicate throat — not to hurt, never to hurt — but to anchor her as he claims her from behind, completely and without reservation.

"You're safe with me," he whispers to the phantom Marigold, his imagination conjuring the soft, irresistible sounds she might make, imagining with total clarity the way her body might yield, accepting him with an implicit, unspoken trust.

The tension coils tighter within him, his muscles straining as he works himself faster, his mind lost in the fantasy of her.

His hand wraps around his thick cock, already swollen and hard, the veins pronounced beneath his palm. He strokes slowly at first, savoring the heavyweight in his grip, the ache building low and unforgiving.

Water sluices down his body, but when he glances down, he sees the beading at the tip — thick, milky, unmistakably not the work of the shower. He brushes his thumb across the sensitive head and shudders. It’s been years since he’s been this hard.

Since he’s felt this kind of need.

Not since Eliza.

Not since love still felt possible.

He fists himself tighter, his movements growing rougher. The hunger he thought long buried now pulses through every nerve, raw and undeniable. He pictures Marigold turning to look at him over her shoulder, those stunning eyes dark with desire, trusting him completely.

Her small frame presses snugly against him, her poised, ballet-trained body arching with a grace that leaves him breathless. He imagines her emerald silk hair, darkened by the shower spray, slick and clinging to her porcelain skin.

The way she’d gasp when he grips her hips. The soft whimper she’d let out when he thrusts in deeper, the trust in her submission undoing him completely.

His breath turns ragged.

Each movement of his hand is more desperate now, more consuming, hips jerking forward into nothing but air and steam. He groans low in his throat, a primal sound swallowed by the rush of water.

His free hand slams against the tile for balance, forehead pressing hard into the coolness of the wall. He pictures her mouth parting, head falling back, her soft moans wrapping around him like silk.

"Marigold," he growls, the name torn from his throat as release claims him, his body shuddering with the force of it. "Mari..."

He spills over his hand, hot and thick, his orgasm hitting like a wave that steals his breath and leaves him gasping. The slick mess is quickly washed away by the cascading water, but the shame lingers — immediate and cutting.

The intensity leaves him momentarily stunned, leaning heavily against the shower wall.

As reality crashes back, shame creeps in at the edges, dark and familiar. He's known the woman all of a day, barely exchanging more than necessary words with her.

This isn't him — never him.

He's always been the controlled one, the Alpha who doesn't let instincts override reason. He closes his eyes against the rush of emotion, the heat and want that have filled the room with their heavy presence.

"Get it together," he mutters, mouth twisted in self-reproach.

The water begins to cool, and Meadow shuts it off with more force than necessary.

He steps out, reaching for a towel, avoiding his reflection in the mirror.

The steam in the room seems to bear witness to his lapse, his disgrace.

Marigold doesn't need him in her life — a widowed Alpha who promised himself never to care again.

"She deserves peace," he says, self-contempt lacing the whisper. "Not me."

A single towel around his waist, Meadow moves to the sink, and splashes cold water on his face, trying to wash away the last traces of his desire. He remembers the wariness in her eyes when she'd realized an Alpha had caught her.

The careful way she'd held herself, like someone afraid to take up space.

Like someone used to making herself small, insignificant, unworthy.

It struck him as wrong, fundamentally wrong, for an Omega like her to seem so diminished.

Still, as he pulls on clean jeans and a simple henley, his thoughts refuse to release her. He remembers the careful way she'd held herself when he caught her —like someone afraid to take up space, someone used to making herself small.

It struck him as wrong, fundamentally wrong, for an Omega like her to seem so diminished.

"She was a dancer," he murmurs, thinking of what little he knows about her, about the world she came from.

A world of discipline and poise, so different from his own. Her graceful way of moving, even when she seemed unsure, spoke of years of intense training. The stiff set of her shoulders and the determined line of her jaw revealed a mind unwilling to surrender, even under immense pressure.

She carried herself with a dignity that seemed at odds with the shadows in her eyes, and Meadow felt something twist inside him at the thought of what she might have endured. The weight she bore would have crushed someone without her strength.

Meadow runs a hand through his damp hair, brushing it back from his forehead. His chest is still tight with feeling, his muscles still tense with the pent-up need for action.

"What happened to you little sunshine ?" he asks the empty room. Recollections of her wary, haunted eyes fill his mind.

Had she loved and lost like he had? Or was it worse than that? Had someone broken her spirit, taken her trust, and used it against her?

His jaw clenches at the thought of another Alpha leaving scars so deep. The protective anger roars up again, nearly drowning out the reason.

He wants to find whoever hurt her, wants to ? —

"No," he says, cutting off the possessive, dangerous thoughts. "Not your place." His hands are shaking, and he takes a deep breath, willing himself to focus, to be calm.

He sits on the edge of his bed, pulling on his boots with deliberate, steady movements. The tasks of the day are waiting, needing his attention.

The ranch won't run itself, and the fence in the north pasture still needs repair.

But even as he makes his mental list of chores, even as he stands and reaches for his hat, Marigold is still there on the edge of his thoughts.

The grace in her movements, the resilience beneath her reserved exterior — they call to him, awakening parts of him he thought long dead. Parts that want to protect, to nurture, to heal.

The tension within him builds, a war between his desire to help her and the temptation to become involved. He's a complication she doesn't need, a complication he shouldn't allow himself to be.

"She might not even come back," he reminds himself, speaking the words aloud as if to convince his own stubborn heart. But even as he says it, he knows it isn't true. Some instinct tells him their paths are meant to cross again — whether either of them is ready for it or not.

He leaves for the ranch, unsure how to handle his attraction to her.

The early morning air greets Meadow with a crisp bite as he steps out onto the weathered porch of his cabin.

The land stretches before him, bathed in the golden light of dawn, the silhouettes of his horses visible in the distance. He breathes deeply, letting the scent of dew-soaked grass and pine fill his lungs, willing it to wash away the lingering traces of her scent from his memory.

"Just another day," he murmurs to himself, adjusting his worn leather gloves as he strides toward the barn.

Inside, the familiar sounds and smells of the stable wrap around him like an old blanket — hay rustling, the soft nickering of horses, the earthy scent of animals and feed.

Whiskey, his chestnut gelding, pokes his head over the stall door, ears perked forward in greeting.

"Morning, old friend," Meadow says, his voice gentler than it ever is with people. He runs a calloused hand down the horse's velvety nose. "Got a full day ahead of us."

He works methodically through his morning routine — feeding, mucking stalls, checking each animal with careful attention. The physical labor is a welcome distraction, muscles working in familiar patterns that require little thought, leaving his mind dangerously free to wander.

"Focus," he growls to himself, pitchfork stabbing into fresh hay with more force than necessary.

His ranch hand, Eli, arrives mid-morning, whistling as he enters the barn.