The grandfather clock in the far corner of the mass room let out another heavy, metallic tick, the second hand moving at a glacial, torturous pace that seemed to mock the rising tide of biology in the room. The air was thick, heavy with the humid spice of the Dream Well oil and the hyper-refined, addictive pheromones that Kaelan continued to project into the cold space.
Marcus stood frozen, his broad chest rising and falling as his lungs dragged in the scented air. The lie he had told earlier—the hasty, defensive claim that he was entirely straight and immune to the displays of manly, gym-toned types—shattered like glass in the presence of the scene before him. He had only used the deception as a shield to keep the laboratory director at bay, a convenient wall to hide the highly guarded truth that he had always possessed an appreciation for the male form. But in the dim, amber-lit mass room, the lie had become a trap that was now suffocating his pride.
