The following morning, the air in the master bedroom was still thick with the lingering, sweet scent of Enigma pheromones and the musky aftermath of the previous night's relentless mating lock.
Malcolm woke up feeling as if his lower half had been completely dismantled and put back together wrong. Every single muscle in his thighs, hips, and lower back ached with a deep, throbbing soreness. Gritting his teeth, he gripped the edge of the mattress and attempted to sit up, but the moment his weight shifted onto his pelvic floor, a sharp, white-hot flash of pain shot straight up his spine. He couldn't sit properly; the internal bruising left by Dahmer's massive knot made him instantly tilt to the side, his breath hitching sharply in his throat.
From the other side of the bed, Dahmer was already awake, resting his chin on his propped-up hand. His piercing silver eyes were wide open, watching Malcolm's every micro-expression with a sharp, predatory focus.
