His Omega, His Punishment
But my eyes scanned hungrily for her, my wolf pacing restlessly beneath my skin, urging me forward.
There—under the massive oak that served as the pack's gathering tree—she stood like a vision from my dreams. Clara, in a flowing white dress that skimmed her lithe form, the fabric embroidered with silver threads that caught the fading sunlight. Her dark hair fell in loose waves down her back, adorned with a crown of fresh wildflowers—daisies and lupines, her favorites. She was laughing at something Mr. Hang said, her head thrown back, exposing the graceful line of her throat. Gods, she'd grown. No longer the gangly girl I'd left behind, but a woman on the cusp, her curves subtle yet intoxicat
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