Chapter Eleven #14
Preston backed off without comment, returning to his vegetables, the rhythmic sound of the knife against the cutting board picking up again. Sasha appreciated that about him. The guy understood boundaries. He also didn’t hold grudges. Thank god.
Grabbing more paper towels, Sasha swiped at the spill. At this rate, he would go through the entire supply in the cleaning closet.
A door slammed somewhere in the house. Sasha froze, heart thundering, muscles tense as his gaze flicked toward the kitchen entrance.
Just a door. Just a stupid door. Not fists. Not breaking glass. Not my bones cracking.
He forced his breathing to slow, his hands to uncurl, and his posture to relax. His eyes darted around, noticing the mates watching him.
Glancing down, Sasha went back to wiping up his mess, thankful for a task to focus on.
“You sure you don’t want help?” Preston asked quietly.
As sweet as Preston was, Sasha wished the guy would stop offering. It only reminded him how helpless he was.
“I’m fine.” He didn’t even look up as he worked. It wasn’t Preston’s asking that wore him out but the pain. He braced his jaw and waited for the ache to ease up, but it kept going, steady and stubborn.
Preston hovered nearby, probably waiting to jump in if asked, but Sasha didn’t say anything else, not wanting to make a big deal out of his pain.
Some days were better than others. Today just wasn’t one of the better ones.
In more ways than one.
Newt and Jalen exchanged a look that Sasha pretended not to notice. He hated those looks, the silent communication that said more than words ever could. Poor Sasha. Broken Sasha. Jumpy Sasha who can’t even handle a door closing without freaking out.
“So what’s the plan for today?” Newt finally asked, clearly trying to ease the tension in the room. “Movie marathon? Video games? I vote for anything that doesn’t involve Preston forcing us to eat vegetables.”
“Vegetables keep you alive, you sugar-addicted menace,” Preston retorted.
“I found this weird indie horror film about possessed garden gnomes that we can watch,” Newt continued.
“Only you would find that appealing,” Jalen snickered, a smudge of peanut butter on the side of his lip.
Their easy banter resumed, flowing around Sasha like water around a rock. He tried to join in, forcing a smile that felt plastic as fuck. His ribs ached with each breath, a constant reminder of hands that had struck without mercy.
Footsteps approached from the hallway, and Sasha knew without looking that it was Quinn. After three weeks, he recognized the cadence of his footfalls, the rhythm etched in Sasha’s body’s memory. His heart did a little stutter-step that had nothing to do with his fright.
Yet another issue I’m trying to juggle.
Quinn sauntered into the kitchen, drawing Sasha’s attention like an addict. Three weeks of living together, of sharing a bed just for sleep. Quinn careful not to jostle Sasha’s injuries, Sasha pretending he wasn’t waking up gasping from nightmares.
Still, there was no denying how Quinn obliterated Sasha’s control, especially after the guy had seen him naked. Taking care of basic needs was impossible with a cast and bruised ribs. The first time Sasha tried to shower he’d nearly set back his recovery.
Quinn had simply strolled in and stripped Sasha naked, helping to keep him steady. But Sasha’s cock had taken that as a sign to perk right the fuck up like, “Hello, sir. I, too, would like to be healed.”
It had been embarrassing as hell. While Quinn had only been trying to help, Sasha had stood there with a raging hard-on. Worse? Quinn had crouched to remove Sasha’s pants and had nearly gotten his eye poked out.
That wasn’t the only time he’d become rock-hard. Whenever Quinn touched him or breathed in Sasha’s general direction, instant chub.
His thirst was real, and it had nothing to do with the freshly squeezed orange juice he kept spilling.
“Hey.” Quinn’s gaze homed in on him immediately.
“Hey yourself,” Sasha replied, aiming for casual and missing by a mile when he leaned back and nearly missed the edge of the island.
Quinn jerked like he could catch Sasha from across the room.
The guy moved around the kitchen, not quite hovering but never straying too far from Sasha’s orbit.
After the third time Sasha had snapped at him for treating him like an invalid, the guy had developed this new approach.
Present but not overbearing. He hated that he’d put that caution in Quinn’s movements.
“I think I’ll head upstairs. Ribs are bothering me a bit,” Sasha announced, picking up his glass, only to realize it was full. Preston chopped faster, refusing to look his way.
The hen has struck again. Sasha had refused help, but Preston had given it anyway.
As Sasha turned, the thought of being alone made his chest tighten, but he’d been downstairs for hours already. Quinn would worry if he pushed himself too hard. Everyone would worry, and Sasha was tired of being the cause of concerned glances and whispered conversations.
“Want company?” Jalen asked.
“Nah, I’m just going to read for a while.” Another lie. What he really wanted was to curl up and disappear for a few hours, to stop performing this exhausting charade of normalcy.
Moving away from the counter, Sasha navigated carefully around the kitchen island. His pace was glacial, each step measured to minimize the pull on his healing ribs. The journey from kitchen to staircase might as well have been miles. It sure as hell felt like it.
The first step loomed before him like a mountain that would hurt to conquer.
“You can do this,” he muttered to himself. “One step at a time. Like everything else in this fucking disaster of a life.”
He transferred the juice to his casted hand, using his good one to grip the railing. Twenty-three steps. He’d counted them multiple times during his stay here. Twenty-three opportunities to lose his balance, to fall, to hurt himself all over again.
Taking a deep breath, he began his ascent. His ribs objected with each step, a dull ache that flared into something sharper if he moved too quickly.
Halfway up, he paused to catch his breath.
Behind him, footsteps followed. Not close enough to crowd, but present nonetheless.
“I can feel you lurking back there,” he said without turning around. “You’re not exactly stealthy, you know.”
“Not trying to be,” Quinn replied, his voice closer than Sasha expected. “Just making sure you’re safe.”
Safe. The word hit like a physical blow. His throat tightened, vision blurring as tears welled unexpectedly.
Safe was what he’d never truly feel again, no matter how many wolves surrounded him.
Safe was what Quinn promised every night when nightmares jolted Sasha awake, gasping and crying.
Before he could stop it, a tear slipped down his cheek. Then another. He kept his face forward, hiding the silent evidence of the cracks in his facade.
As painful as it was, Sasha kept climbing. Pride was all he had left. If he turned around now, Quinn would see the tears, would try to help, would remind Sasha once again of how broken he’d become.
Another step. His ribs screamed. Another tear fell.
“Almost there,” Quinn said quietly from behind him.
Sasha didn’t trust his voice to respond, didn’t acknowledge the silent support that followed him with every step.
His foot caught slightly, sending a jolt through his body that made his ribs scream in protest. A small, involuntary sound escaped him.
“Firefly—” Quinn began.
“Don’t.” Sasha cut him off, his voice barely audible. “Please.”
More tears fell, but he kept moving. Just a few more steps and he might find a moment’s peace from the fear that had become his constant companion.
Quinn remained close enough to catch him if he fell, far enough away to honor his need for independence. The perfect distance that somehow hurt more than if Quinn had simply left him alone.
When he finally reached the top, Sasha paused, taking a moment to steady himself, unsure if he could make it the rest of the way. He was sweating profusely, and his legs were wobbling.
A strong arm slid around his waist. “Just a little farther.”
Sasha nodded. Their bedroom door stood ajar, promising sanctuary.
Inside, Quinn set the glass on the nightstand before lowering Sasha carefully onto the edge of the bed. He grabbed the pain pills, handed them over, then retrieved the glass so Sasha could take them.
In the quiet of their shared room, Sasha’s shoulders slumped. The tears fell freely now, and Quinn was right there to catch every single one.
Chapter Ten
“Are you sure you’re not ready to dump me on a curb with a free-kitten sign attached to me?”
“Depends.” Quinn brushed his hand over his mate’s side, careful of his ribs. They were stretched out in bed, being lazy as hell on a Sunday afternoon. The day was overcast, and Quinn had opened the window to let in the scent of pine from the surrounding forest.
It had been weeks since he’d let out his wolf to run. Normally, his beast became agitated if he went a few days without paws pressed against the earth, but since their mate had been injured, it was content just to lie here with Sasha.
“Depends on what?” His mate lay flat on his back, Quinn on his side, with Sasha’s hand curled into his front pocket.
Quinn winked. “How well you can purr, kitten.”
A fiery-red blush blossomed across Sasha’s neck, face, and ears.
Quinn was dying to use his tongue to see if it felt as hot as it looked.
While his mate had been recovering psychically, the sexual tension between them had been growing.
His wolf hadn’t demanded he claim Sasha, not when their mate was in pain.
Less so in his nearly five weeks of healing.
Quinn wasn’t a saint. Not even close. Not when every damn shower with Sasha turned into a slow torture as he stripped his mate down and tried like hell to behave.