Chapter Ten – Wren
Chapter Ten
Wren
“Out! Now!”
I yell at him the second we’re back in the motel room. I don’t wait for him to respond and don’t give him time to argue.
Zeth pours out of me like liquid, and I shudder at the strange sensation. He reforms a few feet away, his charcoal-gray body solidifying into his humanoid shape.
“Wren, I’m so sorry–”
“Just go into the bathroom so I can change,” I cut him off. “Come back out in ten minutes.”
His shoulders slump, his body curving inward like I’ve physically struck him. He doesn’t say another word, just walks to the bathroom and closes the door behind him with a soft click.
The room feels bigger without him in it. I stand there for a moment, breathing hard, trying to calm the anger still racing through my veins. Then the guilt hits me. I essentially just put him in time-out like a child, sent him to his room to think about what he did.
But what he did at the club was unacceptable.
He took control of my body without my permission and made me grab that guy’s wrist and squeeze until I felt his bones grind together.
His actions forced me to cut the visit short, made people stare, and nearly caused a scene.
I’d told him we needed to lie low, and he was about to start a fight in the middle of a club filled with criminals.
I can’t let that slide, even if I feel like garbage for treating him this way.
I dig through my bag for clothes, refusing to unpack anything into that disgusting dresser.
The thought of my things touching those drawers makes my skin crawl.
I find an old T-shirt and cotton pajama pants, change quickly, then sit at the small table and pull out my phone.
My hands shake as I scroll through delivery apps.
I order a large pepperoni pizza, because I need something greasy and filling to get rid of the knot in my stomach.
Exactly ten minutes later, the bathroom door opens. Zeth emerges and sits down across from me. I ignore him and keep scrolling through my phone like he’s not even there.
“Wren, can we talk about–”
“Is this how it’s going to be?” I still don’t look at him. “Stuck with you at all times, day and night? Not a single moment alone?”
“I can give you privacy when you need it,” he says. “But given the situation and the mission, how dangerous this is… It’s better if we stick together.”
“It’s too much for me.”
It dawns on me that I don’t know if I can actually do this. I’ve been on my own for years, living alone and answering to no one, sharing my space with absolutely nobody. I don’t know how to have someone constantly there, constantly present and aware of everything I’m doing, thinking and feeling.
“I understand–” he starts.
“I don’t think you do,” I snap, finally looking at him. “You thrive with a host, so you’ve never really been alone, have you?”
He’s quiet for a moment, then nods.
“You’re right, I haven’t. But I can empathize.”
There’s a knock on the door. I push back from the table and grab my wallet, answer the door and pay the delivery guy. The pizza box is hot in my hands as I carry it back to the table.
Zeth stands up and moves to the bed, sitting on the very edge like he’s afraid to take up too much space. He turns on the TV, keeps the volume low, and pretends to watch whatever’s on. It’s some late-night talk show with canned laughter.
I open the pizza box and eat fast. The anger is still making me jittery, and my jaw feels tight as I chew. I watch him as I eat, sitting there so carefully on the edge of the bed.
He looks like a beaten puppy. His shoulders are hunched, his head slightly bowed, his whole posture screaming that he knows he messed up and he’s waiting for forgiveness he doesn’t think he deserves. It makes something twist in my chest.
Because the truth is, I’m torn. On one hand, I’m furious at him for not listening to me at the club, for putting me in that awkward situation and nearly blowing everything we’d worked for tonight.
On the other hand, he was being so protective of me.
Almost possessive. The way he reacted when that guy groped me, the fierce anger I felt rolling through him, and the way he wanted to defend me from someone touching me without permission… Damn it.
I have to admit, I kind of liked it.
But I can’t get distracted by these feelings. I can’t let myself think about how it felt to have him care that much, to have someone actually stand up for me like that. I need to stay focused on the mission.
I finish the last slice, close the pizza box, and go to the bathroom to brush my teeth. When I come back out, that nasty edge is still in my voice despite myself.
“You’re sleeping on the floor.”
I grab a pillow and throw it at him. It hits his chest and he catches it automatically.
“This should be fine for you,” I say. “You can mold to the floor, right? Probably don’t need a blanket either.”
He looks shocked for a moment, his black eyes widening slightly. Then his head drops.
“It’s fine. I can sleep on the floor. It’s no trouble.”
I get into bed, turn off the lamp, and pull the duvet up to my chin. The room plunges into darkness. I close my eyes and try to sleep.
It’s no use.
I lie there staring at the ceiling I can barely see, listening to the sound of his breathing. An hour passes, maybe more. The guilt grows heavier with each passing minute, pressing down on my chest until I can barely breathe.
I made him sleep on the floor like a dog. But he’s not a dog, he’s a person. Not human but still deserving of basic dignity and respect. And I just threw a pillow at him and told him to sleep on the ground because I was angry.
His breathing is steady and controlled. I can tell he’s not asleep either, but he’s not moving at all, not making a single sound. He’s just lying there because I told him to. The frustration builds until I can’t take it anymore.
I sit up and turn on the lamp. The light makes me squint as I get out of bed and look down at him.
He’s curled on his side at the foot of the bed, positioned between the bed and the door like he’s standing guard.
His back is to me, his charcoal-gray skin visible in the lamplight, the silver markings running through it like veins.
His broad shoulders are hunched forward, as if he’s trying to make himself as small as possible.
I feel like the most horrible bitch in the world.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “Please come sleep in the bed, next to me.”
Zeth rolls onto his back and looks up at me. His black eyes stare at me, dark, intense and unreadable.
“It’s okay,” he says. “You should have the bed. I’m fine on the floor. Don’t worry about me.”
“No, I mean it,” I insist. “I’m sorry for being so awful to you. Please. We’ll each sleep on our side of the bed.”
He hesitates. “Are you sure? I don’t want to crowd you.”
I roll my eyes, but it’s not because I’m trying to be sarcastic. I feel like smiling, and I’m doing my best to suppress it.
“You can’t possibly crowd me more than when we’re merged.”
He considers this for a moment, then sits up.
“All right. If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
Zeth climbs into bed beside me, and the mattress dips under his weight, the springs creaking loudly.
I pull the duvet over both of us, and we lie back to back, each on our own side of the bed.
There’s distance between us, but I can feel his warmth radiating across the space, the heat from his body reaching me even though we’re not touching.
It makes me feel safe somehow. Protected.
I fall asleep within minutes.
***
I wake up as morning light filters through the curtains, turning the room gray and hazy. I realize that I’ve rolled onto my other side during the night, and I’m facing Zeth.
He’s on his back, still asleep. This is the first time I can study him without him knowing, so I indulge.
The morning light illuminates his profile, and I take in every detail.
His jawline is strong and defined, his cheekbones high, and his features angular and precise.
He has no hair anywhere, just smooth charcoal-gray skin that looks almost soft in this light.
The silver markings running through his skin look beautiful – intricate patterns that catch the dim glow from the window.
The duvet has slipped down to his waist during the night. His massive chest is exposed, broad, muscled, and powerful. I can see every defined muscle and admire the way they shift slightly as he breathes. My fingers itch to touch him.
He looks like this all the time. Symbiotes don’t wear clothes, but until now, I’ve actively tried not to stare.
My eyes drift lower, following the line of the duvet where it’s bunched around his waist. I stop abruptly.
There’s a massive tent in the fabric. His cock is huge, pressing up against the duvet, the outline clearly visible. The fabric is bunched low enough that I can see exactly how big he is.
My eyes practically bulge out of my head. I can’t look away, can’t stop staring. Heat floods through me, and my pussy throbs so hard it almost hurts. All I want is to pull that duvet off him and see what his cock actually looks like, see if it’s as big as it looks.
My breathing gets faster, shallower. I can feel myself getting wet, soaking through my panties.
Zeth stirs in his sleep. His cock twitches under the duvet.
I bite my lip hard and feel myself gush. I’m soaking wet in seconds just from looking at him, just from seeing that massive erection straining against the fabric.
I get out of bed quickly, nearly stumbling over my own feet. I rush to the bathroom and close the door behind me.
I hear the bed creak as he wakes up.
“Wren?” He calls out, concerned. “Are you okay?”
I force my voice to be steady.
“Yes, be there in a minute.”
But I don’t come out in a minute. I stand at the sink, gripping the edges so hard my knuckles turn white. I want to masturbate so badly it physically hurts. My hand keeps drifting toward the waistband of my pajama pants, fingers itching to slip inside and give myself the relief I’m desperate for.
But I stop myself. When we merge later, he might find out.
I have no idea how to keep certain things from him, and don’t know what he can and can’t sense when we’re connected.
It’s bad enough that if I think about his cock today, he’ll see the thought in my head.
It would be even worse if I masturbate to it.
He’d know exactly what I did. He might even feel the echo of it somehow.
I can’t risk that humiliation.
I splash cold water on my face repeatedly, letting it drip down my neck and soak into my T-shirt. I look at myself in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes wild, and my hair a mess.
“I’m so fucked,” I say out loud.
Then I correct myself with a bitter laugh.
“Actually, I’m unfucked.”
Unfucked for so long, I’m losing the plot completely.