Chapter 9
Wren
There have been many moments in my life when I woke up wishing that I hadn’t.
Too many to count. In fact, that feeling—that initial disappointment at regaining consciousness—has become a familiar one.
Just like now, it rises in a slow wave tasting of cold disillusionment and apathy before I’m flooded with desperation, waterboarded into reality with the memories of the new low I hit before I fell asleep.
I slowly open my dry, burning eyes. My head feels like it’s packed with shards of glass. Not much better than my body. I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling, wondering why my mind decided to wake me up when I’m completely and utterly drained.
The tight coil at the bottom of my stomach is another punch to the gut. As I move under the blanket, my straining, sensitive cock brushes against the fabric of my pants.
Fuck this. This goddamn existence.
He should’ve let me freeze to death. He should’ve—
I pinch the bridge of my nose to stop myself from crying and try to get a grip on myself. Everything that happened flashes through my mind, bringing back embarrassment that nearly rivals that horrible need bubbling underneath my skin.
I look to the side to see Russell sleeping on the couch, one arm hanging off, the other uncomfortably twisted over and behind his head.
I really am a piece of shit.
The magpie tilts its head at me with interest from the top of the couch, where it promptly releases another runny poop.
I frown at first, thinking about how dumb it is to have this wild animal trapped in here to defecate and fly all over as it pleases, but then…
something inside me shifts. An unexplainable, unexpected sense of peace takes over.
I look into those beady black eyes, realizing it was bound to die outside in the cold, but Russell brought it in and saved it.
Just like he did with me.
The relief is short-lived. As the bird flies away to hop around the kitchen counter, I’m hit with the harshness of reality again.
I stare into the fire, the heat soft against my skin, and remember how fucking hard I wanted to say ‘sorry’ or ‘thank you’ yesterday when Rus was doing everything he could to get me warmed up, but I couldn’t.
I bite down on my lip, tightening my fists to stop my hands from trembling. Even as I close my eyes and shake my head, the thoughts roll in.
‘This is why Felix left.’
What happened, what I did, how I acted, how I always act…I’m not an alpha that any omega would ever want. I am a useless, pathetic excuse of a human being. Weak-willed. Emotional. Selfish. All I can give to anyone is my pheromones while I fuck them. That’s it. That’s all there is to me.
Maybe she had the right idea, using me only for that purpose.
Maybe she didn’t do anything wrong at all.
Russell should’ve left me there on that frozen porch. How fucking poetic would it have been, me dying in front of that damned house? I chuckle to myself softly, finding that hilarious.
But of course he didn’t. That’s not who he is.
I tiredly shift my gaze to Rus on the couch again. He is good. Kind. So damn kind, even to a worthless bastard like me.
I want to cry over how nice it felt to be carried in those strong arms. After being ready to let it all go, surrounded by the biting cold, his embrace almost made me think I was being taken to the afterlife or something. He saved me. He took me into his arms and…
Shivers make my entire body jerk the moment I feel my cock throb.
No, no, no…
I release the pressure of my teeth digging into my bottom lip when I taste blood.
It’s shameful and horrible, even though it shouldn’t be.
I shouldn’t be doing this here and now, but I can’t fucking help myself.
The idea of getting up to do it somewhere else and waking Rus terrifies me, so I just keep my voice down and barely move besides sliding my trembling hand under the blankets.
My body’s on fire, my mind fraying at the edges. No matter how much I jerk myself off, my skin feels tight and wrong, and it’s not helping. Like an itch I can’t scratch. The more I try, the more disgusted I am with myself and the worse I feel.
After only a few strokes, I come in my hand, desperately holding back my panting breaths. The need still swells at the bottom of my belly, so I finally risk sneaking off to the bathroom to have a cold shower, hoping it will alleviate it for at least a bit.
Standing under the running water, I finish another time.
There’s no joy or relief in it. My mind’s blank, the thing between my legs nothing but some bothersome curse that demands a sacrifice no matter what.
I don’t get out until I’m so cold my cock feels like it’s about to fall off.
I wrap my hair in a towel and put the clothes Rus gave me back on before walking out.
As I’ve feared, he’s awake. He sits on the couch, staring blankly ahead until I step out of the bathroom. His cautious gaze finds me, and I instantly feel like throwing myself back into the snowstorm.
The atmosphere is awkward. Beyond awkward. Of course it is. I made it that way. I did this.
How do I even act? How do I act after completely screwing everything up because I needed to get high?
Rus says nothing. Maybe it’s for the better. He’s probably too nice to tell me outright what a prick I am. Not like he can kick me out, either. I’ve effectively made him a hostage in this fucking shitshow, in his own house. A great way to repay his kindness…
My throat closes up. If I could at least face this like a man, but…I can’t.
I nervously shift on my feet, struggling to swallow the lump in my throat, before I decide to just go for it and walk to the bed. I grab my phone. Only four percent left now and…damn, it’s the next day?! I shake my head and start typing.
Does he even want my apologies? My explanations?
Does he even want to look at me? I can’t tell. The sternness of his expression, so unlike before, makes it almost impossible to read him. And who could blame him for building up a wall after what I did?
[Thanks for not letting me relapse.]
Even writing that makes me feel sticky with the familiar kind of shame. It’s like the grime and slime at the bottom of a public toilet garbage can.
And it’s so hard to see the bright side—the fact that I didn’t actually relapse—when just the shame of nearly doing so, of coming so close, overshadows everything.
In truth, did I not, really? It wasn’t me who stopped it from happening.
Russell had to do it. So, is there anything to fucking celebrate?
I make my way around the bed, my knees feeling like damn spaghetti, to show him what I typed.
Rus’s eyes dart along the message before rising to meet mine. His expression is still scarily distant. I remind myself I deserve it and, trying to swallow the lump blocking my throat, type more.
[I’m sorry for everything. I really am, Russell.]
What do those empty words even mean? Who am I kidding?
When a soft, wary smile appears on his lips, my heart hiccups.
Unfortunately, this act of kindness only causes my already hormonal body to spiral further into madness.
I hate myself for the way his mere smile makes me stir.
I hate how fucking good he smells right now, and that I can’t stop picturing him moaning under me like he did yesterday.
It’s disgusting and sick how I used him, and how much I enjoyed it. Not using him, but being with him.
I can’t let him see me get hard. I have to… I have to do something. Anything.
[I know I’m on thin ice, but I need to be alone right now. Can I go downstairs for a little while? I need some snacks and time to decompress. Just that. I swear I don’t want the pills anymore. I promise I won’t do anything stupid.]
Stopping myself halfway through the motion of showing him, I quickly pull the phone back and add to the text.
[My promise probably means nothing to you but I do. I mean it.]
I type that out in panic, not even checking if it makes sense, and show it to him. Rus widens his eyes at the wall of text. His brow jerks slightly, like there’s some doubt flashing across his mind, but then he glances up at me and nods.
That’s it? No questions, no arguing?
“Okay,” he says softly. “I…trust you.”
My chest tightens. I almost want to cry.
Oh, you shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t. You have no good reason to, you stupid, kind-hearted fool.
I want to hug him. I don’t deserve his understanding or even to breathe his air. But if I stay a moment longer, I might actually try to hug him, and then I’ll want to do more than that…and I won’t do that to him anymore. No matter what.
Mouthing a quick “thank you,” I go toward the stairs. I try to control my speed, so he doesn’t actually think I’m flying down there to break the cabinet open with my bare hands like a maniac. Honestly, I was close to doing that yesterday, so I wouldn’t hold it against him to imagine that.
When I walk in, I’m immediately assaulted by the bitter memories of what went down. I take the towel off my head and put it on the counter with a sigh.
I was completely out of control, wasn’t I?
I almost don’t recognize myself looking back, but then again, I do.
This is who I am. It’s how I get when I give in and reduce myself to only that one basic need.
I hate to admit it. I’d rather lie and tell myself that wasn’t my real self, but who am I kidding?
Yesterday, I showed Russell exactly who Wren Compton is deep down.
I wish he’d never seen it.
Fuck, it’s so damn hot. Actually, the air down here is pretty cold. It’s only me that’s burning up.
‘You didn’t think about this when you used after Felix left you, did you, you idiot? About how bad the rut will be after.’
It’s always so much worse after getting clean again. But of course I didn’t think about that. The me who uses is the most selfish person in the world. He cares about no one, much less himself.
I desperately press my hands against my face and rub my eyes. I’m so fucking pent up. There’s a pathetic side of me that just wants to grind against anything it can find like an animal until I feel so tired I fall asleep.
Pacing through the aisles, I try to breathe through it.
Not like this is something I can’t push through. It’s nothing but hormones. I have control over my body. I…
My cock strains against my pants again, driving me completely insane with how sensitive it is to any slight movement.
I pause in front of the alcohol shelf displayed high above the counter.
Tempting. If I get shitfaced enough, I could stop these thoughts as well as the little bastard below from working, but…
drinking only makes me even more melancholic, and that always leads to relapsing.
I promised.
I promised him I wouldn’t do anything stupid down here.
The desperation building inside me rises like water about to boil over. With my shaking hands held over my mouth, I slide to the ground in the far, dark corner of the store and just stare ahead as my eyes prickle with tears.
Even here, everything smells like him. That sweet, powerful smell of an omega in their prime…
I dart my eyes over the room, trying to distract myself with something, anything, but all that comes to mind is Russell carrying heavy boxes around and stacking them.
Him squatting down, his round ass barely contained by the tight fabric of his pants, while he’s using those muscular, strong arms to put items on the shelves.
Craning my head with a trembling exhale, I swallow the excess saliva and remember watching him cook, the muscles on his back flexing and shifting with each movement.
I’m not even sure when I grabbed my cock, but it’s out and I’m stroking it, completely out of my mind with arousal. My legs quiver at the memory of how perfect his hole felt squeezing around me. I whine, barely holding in a guttural moan building in my throat.
The mounting pressure in my cock intensifies. Good. Feels good.
Almost there. It’s not enough—it’s not him—but I’m nearly there.
Panting, I press my hand over the tip to not make a mess.
As my cum fills my cupped palm, I feel dizzy and lonely and disgusted with myself.
I throw my head back violently until it hits the wall I’m leaning against. The pain shoots through my skull, the intensity of it distracting me, even if only for a moment.
How the fuck am I going to get through the rut without him knowing?
I squirm on the ground and open my eyes to look for something to clean up with, but freeze at the sight of Russell standing at the end of the aisle, staring right at me.