Chapter 74: The Scent of Safety
The soft cotton of Rhys’s shirt held his scent like a promise. Aurora lay curled around it, eyes closed, breathing him in.The emptiness of the room pressed in, but the shirt helped. It was a tether.Eventually, the practical needs of her body won out. Every muscle protested as she sat up.A hot bath.That was the first step.
The bathroom air was steamy and thick with the smell of the lavender epsom salts she poured under the tap. Sinking into the near-scalding water was a shock, then a relief. She watched the bruises on her hips and thighs bloom purple under the surface.Evidence. Her skin felt fundamentally different—sensitized, owned.Her fingers went to her neck, to the raised, precise pattern of the bond mark. Just a brush of her fingertips sent a jolt through her, a fizzy, low-voltage current that tightened her stomach and made her toes curl.It wasn’t just pain. It was a live wire connecting straight to her core, a constant, quiet reminder.His. She touched it again, experimentally, and a shiver wracked her body, raising goosebumps on her arms despite the hot water.A soft, involuntary sound escaped her lips.It felt indecent and wonderful.
Clean, wrapped in a soft robe, she faced the nest. It was a warzone of intimacy—sheets tangled, pillows flung, everything carrying the potent, musky scent of their spent heat. She bundled it all, his shirt set carefully aside, and started the laundry.The mundane act felt surreal. Washing away the physical proof even as the permanent proof throbbed on her neck.
As the machines thrummed in the background, a new kind of energy fizzed in her veins.Gratitude. A desperate, giddy need to give.He’d taken care of her. He’d given her everything.She wanted to… make a feast.A celebration. They had to be starving.She grabbed her phone, pulling up the notes app. During one of the lulls in the heat, when he’d held her and talked in that low, rumbling voice, he’d mentioned food.Off-hand comments she’d hoarded.A steakhouse he liked. Garlic mashed potatoes. Chocolate cake that was “so fucking rich it’s stupid.” She’d memorized it all.The grocery order was a splurge. Thick ribeye steaks, fresh rosemary, a head of garlic, real cream, bitter dark chocolate, heavy strawberries. She added a bag of coffee beans from the local roaster he’d mentioned. The total made her wince, but the thought of his face—surprised, pleased—was worth every penny.
Delivery arrived in bulky paper bags.She spread the bounty on her small kitchen counter, a colorful array of luxury. She’d never cooked a steak before. She watched a video on her phone, propped against the sugar canister.Season liberally.Get the pan screaming hot.
Her kitchen filled with sounds and smells. The sizzle of steak searing in butter, the earthy scent of rosemary, the sweet, jammy smell of strawberries macerating in sugar. She whipped cream by hand, her arm aching, until it formed soft peaks. The chocolate cake was from a mix, but she folded in extra chunks of chocolate.It was messy, physical work.She loved it. Every chop, stir, and taste was a quiet offering.She set her small table. Her best plates, the ones with the tiny silver rim.A single candle. It looked foolish next to the massive, savage steaks, but she liked the contrast.The clock dragged.4 PM.5 PM. She cleaned herself up, putting on soft, clean leggings and an oversized sweater that slipped off one shoulder, conveniently revealing the mark.She looked at herself in the hallway mirror.Different. Softer around the eyes, but there was a new certainty in her stance. She touched the mark again, her breath catching.At 6:45 PM, her phone buzzed.
Rhys: Running 10 min late.Job ran over.Starving.Aurora: No hurry.Food is ready.
She added a photo of the set table, the steaks resting under a foil tent, the cake waiting on the counter.Three dots appeared.Then his reply.Rhys: Holy shit, baby. Did you cook all that?Aurora: Maybe.
Rhys: I’m leaving now.The next ten minutes were agony.She paced.Fluffed the pillows on the couch. Re-lit the candle twice.Then, the heavy, familiar tread on the stairs. A firm knock at her door.Her heart hammered against her ribs. She smoothed the sweater, took a breath, and opened it.
He stood there, still in his work clothes—dark jeans smudged with grease, a tight grey henley stretched across his chest, his leather jacket open. He smelled like engine oil, cold autumn air, and man. His eyes went straight to her neck, darkening with immediate, possessive satisfaction.Then they scanned her face, the room behind her, the table.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the word full of genuine awe.
He stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind him.His hands, still cool from outside, cupped her face. He didn’t kiss her.He just looked, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones.“You did all this? For me?”
She nodded, words stuck in her throat.His gaze dropped to her neck again. “And you’re displaying my work, I see.” A slow, pleased smile spread across his face.He leaned in, his nose brushing the mark, and inhaled deeply. A low rumble started in his chest—an alpha’s purr, content and territorial. The vibration went right through her.
“It looks even better today,” he murmured against her skin, sending shivers down her spine.“Hurts?”
“A little,” she whispered. “But in a good way.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, his voice rough. “In the best way.” He finally pulled back, his hands sliding down to her shoulders.“I’ve been thinking about this mark all day. About you.In my shop.Driving here. It’s been driving me fucking crazy.”
He was here.He was real.The emptiness of the day shattered.
“Are you hungry?” she asked, her voice small.“Starving.” His eyes held hers.“For the food, yeah. But first…”
He bent his head and kissed her, deep and claiming and slow, a brand-new seal over the one he’d already placed on her neck. When he broke away, they were both breathless.
“Now,” he said, his arm sliding around her waist to pull her toward the table. “Let’s see what my good girl made.”