Oliver's POV
I led her to the bed, the room dimly lit and heavy with the scent of her fear and desire. My hands were steady as I reached for the zipper of that midnight-blue dress, but my mind was a battlefield.
As the fabric pooled at her feet, I saw her body again. My eyes immediately locked onto the faint, reddish mark on her shoulder—the claim I had left as Oliver just hours ago. Seeing it there while I stood over her as Raymond made my blood boil.
I didn't know if I should be mad at her or myself. Barely a day since I'd worshipped her, she was here, offering herself to another man. A dark thought clawed at my throat: What if I wasn't Raymond? What if Raymond was someone else? Would she be standing here naked for him, too?
My wolf didn't care about the logic. He didn't care about the lies. He just wanted to be back inside her, to reclaim what was ours. He was howling, pacing against my ribs, demanding I stop thinking and start taking.
