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“ Kira ,” Dorian says, his breath ragged with want, his breath fanning over my cheeks. When I look up at him, I can feel the heat of his body, the press of him against my hips through our clothing.

The next three words make my core pool with heat, throbbing for him.

“I need you,” he rasps, dropping his forehead so it rests against mine. It’s the first time our skin has touched, no barrier between us, and the shock of it through my body is nearly enough to push me over the edge, to make me orgasm right then and there.

“Kira.”

This time, his voice is less sultry, cleaner, and pulled back. I blink up at him, but now he’s across the room, arms crossed. There’s a knocking sound, and he says, “Good morning.”

I sit up, breathing hard and looking around. Once again, there’s the shock of not knowing where I am, until I remember—Dorian’s house. In his guest room. The room is quiet, the windows open to let in a cool, early morning breeze. Just outside the window, little flowers bloom in the planter box, and sheer white curtains shimmer in the gilded light.

My entire body shakes as I rise from the bed, my socked feet hitting the wooden floor and sending a shock through me. That dream felt so real, and I can tell I’m wet from it. For some reason, that reality makes my cheeks warm, a rush of embarrassment flushing my chest.

Ridiculous. To be having sex dreams about a man who publicly rejected me years ago, and has made no indication that he wants me now.

But, if I’m being honest with myself, this is not the first sex dream I’ve had about Dorian Fields. This happens frequently, and much more so every three months, when my heat comes. In fact, a dream about Dorian is a solid indicator that I only have a few days before it sets in completely.

The dreams used to be of us in high school—that was the last I knew of him. But the Dorian in my dream last night was the man he is now, his thick biceps, the stubble over his jaw and neck, the new, dark look in his eyes.

Shuffling across the floor, I cross to the door and crack it open, peering out.

At my feet is a wooden tray. On a small plate is a variety of fresh fruit, nicely cut. There’s a glass of what appears to be orange juice, and a latte that’s exactly the shade of brown I like. Carefully, I lean down and pick it up, bringing it into my room.

In the center is a note.

Kira, come down when you’re ready. Surprise for you. Dorian.

I run my thumb over the note, then quickly throw on some of Ash’s clothes—a pair of jean shorts and a ribbed black tank top. I sip on the latte as I brush through my hair, then dart across the hallway to finish getting ready.

When I come down the stairs, I hear another voice and pause, trying to figure out who it could be. Dorian doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who likes to have people over to his house, so it’s odd that he’s brought someone now.

“Kira,” Dorian says, surprising me by appearing in the foyer. I don’t miss the way his eyes rake up and down my figure, ending on my foot, still hovering over the last step. His throat bobs, and he looks away for a moment before returning his gaze to me. “Come on, I’d like to formally introduce you.”

We cross into the kitchen, and for some reason, the very first thing I notice is that the mess I left last night—all the food, dishes, and leftovers—are clean. The counters gleam. Even the little splatter I accidentally made on the backsplash is gone.

Dorian cleaned. And he cleaned thoroughly.

I ignore the warmth in my chest at that knowledge and turn, eyes landing on the woman sitting at the table. She’s older, wrapped in what looks like a hand-knitted shawl, and looking up at me through her glasses with wide, watery eyes. Her gray hair is pushed back from her head with a thin pink headband, and when she reaches her hand up to me to shake mine, the bangles on her wrist clank merrily.

“You’re a psychic,” I say, voice nearing something like awe.

“That I am,” she smiles, her lips thin and wide. “Good memory on you.”

Of course I know who she is—a woman in the pack with a gift. The psychic that everyone believed, because her predictions had never been wrong. She was old when I was in high school, but she must be ancient now.

Maybe the difference—the reason everyone believed her—is that she’s not an omega, like me. A beta. Automatically higher on the food chain.

Without meaning to, my eyes dart to Dorian, who stands in the doorway, watching the exchange. The only way for me to improve my standing in the pack as an omega was to attach myself to a high-standing alpha. But that was obviously never going to happen—at least, according to my mother—with the way I presented myself.

By that, she meant the size and shape of my body.

When Dorian speaks again, it pushes those thoughts from my mind.

“Kira, I’d like you to meet Beth. She’s a psychometrist.”

I blink. That sounds like something you’d learn to do in math class. I itch to ask what that means, but I don’t want to give away the fact that I’m woefully unprepared for this meeting.

“I gain information through objects,” Beth offers, tipping her chin up to me. “When I touch certain objects—especially those with personal meaning—I feel their energy. Depending on the object, I’ll be able to see its history, makeup, emotion.”

“Wow,” the word slips out of me before I realize how it makes me sound like a fangirl.

“So,” Beth tilts her head at me. “Dorian tells me you have a gift of your own?”

It hits me so suddenly and completely that I don’t have time to stop it—I begin to sob.

“Kira—” Dorian pushes off the door jamb, coming toward me just before I cover my eyes with my palms, sucking in a deep breath, trying to curb the intense wave of relief that’s coursing through my body.

When a hand touches me, I jerk, knowing immediately that it’s not him. Beth wraps me in her arms, rubbing her hand into my back, soothing me.

“That’s alright, darling,” she says into my ear, her voice so calm it makes my breathing level. “I know this feeling—ride it out, love.”

I stand like that for a long time, with Beth murmuring to me, until I’m finally able to suck in a breath and let out a shaky laugh.

“Sorry,” I croak, and she hands me a glass of water. After taking a sip, I look up, startling. “Where did Dorian go?”

Beth shrugs, pulls out a chair at the table. “We won’t need him for this. I told him to go attend to whatever pressing matters I’m sure he has on his mind.”

Nodding, I wrap my hands around the glass of water in front of me and settle into the seat across from her. We sit quietly for a moment, then I raise my chin and look at her.

“So, what do we do?”

“Let’s explore your gift first. Tell me about your experiences. When was the first time you experienced it?”

I swallow, staring at the surface of the water and how it shifts, rocking back and forth ever so slightly in the cup.

“It’s hard to say,” I land on, finally. “I’d get headaches and hear things in my mind. The thing is that it happened sometimes when I was a kid, and I just thought that was something that happened to everyone. Hearing voices in your head.”

I pause, closing my eyes and letting the memories come to me. Beth reaches across the table and offers me her hand, and I take it.

“The first time I realized something odd was happening was in sixth grade. I was sitting at the table, and I’d just decided to put off my math homework. Then my math teacher’s voice popped in my head, and I could hear him saying, clear as day, ‘ Happy Wednesday—time for a pop quiz !’”

Everything comes back to me—the smell of the dining room, the feel of the pencil in my hand. I’d heard his voice in my head and it convinced me to study, do the math homework, and the extra questions. Emin was out in the yard, playing with Dorian and the other boys, and I was inside, working hard on the homework.

That night, he’d cuffed me on the back of the head and called me a little fucking nerd while the other boys laughs chugged water and piled back outside.

“Wednesday morning, the next day, I aced the pop quiz. I heard him say those exact words, in the exact tone: Happy Wednesday—time for a pop quiz . That’s when I started to realize something was going on.”

“Very interesting,” Beth says, nodding, and another wave of relief pours through me. She believes me. She’s an expert in this—a psychic herself—and she isn’t questioning my experience. “What it sounds like, to me, Kira, is that you’re a clairaudient.”

It feels like the word hangs between us, palpable and real over the table.

“Clairaudient,” I repeat, voice rough.

“Yes.” She pauses, looks at me, and considers. “I’m well aware of what happened with Harris Fields.”

Dorian’s grandfather. That whole day flashes through my mind, lightning quick, and I push it away, like I always do.

“Here’s the thing, Kira,” Beth goes on, voice impossibly gentle. “Without any training, without understanding your gift, it’s obvious that you’d make a mistake like that.”

“It is?”

“Of course,” she nods. “Your gift isn’t just limited to premonitions of the future—you can also hear from the past. From spirits long passed. The gift of listening includes that of hearing energies, and emotions, too—when you touch someone, you can listen to their inner workings, almost like a mechanic starting up an engine, ears pricking at the sound of an errant belt.”

My heart is skipping in my chest, and things start to fall into place. I can hear from the past. From spirits long passed. I haven’t been wrong ; I just didn’t understand the context of where it was coming from.

“Why don’t you try now?” Beth asks, squeezing my hand.

“Try…?”

“Look inside yourself. See if you can look under my hood, Kira.”

“You’d … really let me do that?”

Beth laughs. “Well, you’re my only protégé. And there’s no better time for you to start learning about your gift than now.”

There’s the strangest feeling inside me, like something finally clicking into place. Feeling like I might just cry again, I close my eyes, squeeze her hand, and try, for the first time in my life, to use my gift on purpose.