The Bond's Escalating Crisis and a Startling Premonition

The phone call from Hazel ended abruptly, but her moan still echoed in my ears. I shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat of Mr. Vance's sleek black car, trying to adjust myself without being obvious. The sound of her pain—mixed with something else entirely—had sent a jolt straight to my groin, and now I was stuck here, fighting my body's reaction while trapped in a vehicle with the last person I wanted witnessing my discomfort.

"You don't need to pretend, Jaxon," Mr. Vance said, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. "I feel it too."

I scowled at the dashboard. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"The pull," he clarified, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the steering wheel tighter. "Her heat affects all of us. It's... intense."

That was the fucking understatement of the century. Every cell in my body was screaming at me to turn the car around, to race back to Hazel, to claim her as mine. The distance between us felt physically painful.