Scarlett's POV
His entire posture turned completely rigid. The warm, domestic ease that had filled the kitchen just a second ago evaporated, replaced by a sudden, heavy stillness. He turned around slowly, reached over, and clicked off the gas on the stove. The quiet hiss of the burner died, leaving only the sound of my own heartbeat echoing in my ears.
He didn't yell. He didn't snap. Instead, he just pulled out the barstool right next to mine and sat down.
I shifted on my stool, pulling his white shirt tighter around my knees, my eyes locked onto his face. I braced myself for the typical Alpha explosion, for the roar of a possessive male whose territory had just been questioned. But as I looked at him, I didn't see rage. I saw a deep, ancient exhaustion settling into the sharp lines of his face.
He took a long, slow breath, rubbing his temples with his large, tattooed fingers before locking his dark gaze onto mine.
