Page 31 of Omega's Formula

That gives me plenty of time.

I push open the bathroom door and walk straight into a wall of alpha pheromones.

Erik Nilsson is standing in my living room.

We both freeze.

He’s got a laptop bag slung over one shoulder and his phone in his hand. A large suitcase sits beside him. His dark hair is disheveled and there’s a tension in his jaw that speaks to hours of grinding his teeth. He looks exhausted and irritated and unfairly, devastatingly handsome in a charcoal suit.

And he’s staring at me like I’ve just walked in naked.

Which I sort of have.

The silence stretches between us, dangerous and crackling.

I become painfully aware of every detail: the too-small towel barely covering me, water droplets sliding down my chest and stomach, my hair dripping onto my shoulders. My skin is still flushed from the heat.

I watch his eyes track a water droplet as it slides down my collarbone, past my chest, disappearing into the trail of hair below my navel. His throat moves as he swallows.

Something hot and electric sparks low in my belly. I tell myself it’s embarrassment.

It’s definitely embarrassment. It’s not the way his gaze feels on me. Not the way my cock twitches with sudden, unwanted interest. Not the way my grip on the towel has gone white-knuckled because some traitorous part of me wants to let it drop and watch his reaction.

No. This is Erik Nilsson. This is the enemy.

I force my voice to work. “You’re early.”

He blinks and visibly collects himself, straightening his spine and lifting that arrogant chin. “I assumed you’d be expecting me.”

“At noon. It’s barely half nine.”

“I had a gap in my schedule.” He sets his bag down by the couch—the couch where he’ll be sleeping. “I thought it would be more efficient to get settled before my eleven o’clock call.”

I’m still standing in the hallway, dripping water onto the hardwood floor. The puddle around my feet is growing. His gaze drops to it, and his expression shifts into something that looks a lot like disapproval.

“You’re getting water everywhere.”

The spark in my chest flares hotter. “I had a shower. People shower. Water happens.”

“That’s hardwood flooring. Water damage will warp the planks.” He says it like he’s explaining something to a particularly slow child. “Surely you know to dry off before walking through the living space.”

I stare at him. “Are you seriously criticizing my post-shower routine right now?”

“I’m making an observation about my property. I like to look after my assets.”

“Yes, I know. You took mine.” The words come out sharp enough to cut. “Forgive me if I’m not particularly concerned about the planks.”

His jaw tightens. “I won’t have this argument again.”

“Of course you won’t. Because you never had it in the first place. You just had your lawyers crush me until I couldn’t afford to fight back.”

Something dangerous flickers in his eyes. He takes a step toward me, and every instinct I have screams contradictions—flee and fight and something else, something that wants to meet him in the middle of this room and—

The alpha pheromones rolling off him have shifted, edged with something darker than irritation. Fury. And underneath it, barely leashed, something that smells like want.

My body responds before my brain can catch up. Heat pooling low. Skin prickling with awareness.

“I’m not going to stand here and be insulted in my own home,” he says.