EIGHTEEN #3
Kaito makes a low sound against my mouth, barely there and more breath than voice. His hands lift, then they stop in the air beside me like he’s afraid even the wrong kind of wanting will ruin something. Like it’ll bruise something.
I hate that, too.
So I kiss him harder, because I’ve apparently chosen death by poor decisions and wet Alpha.
His mouth is warm against mine. Rainwater drips from his hair onto my cheek. Burning wood and warm flannel fill my senses, wrapping around me until my Omega stops pacing and goes utterly still.
Not owned.
Not trapped.
Just… still.
And that scares me more than any Zed ever has.
My fingers tighten in his shirt. His body leans closer, but not enough to crowd. He lets me set the angle, the pressure, and the pace, even though I can feel the force he’s using to hold himself back.
I want.
The word spreads hot and horrible through me. I want his hands. I want his scent. I want the quiet place that happens when he’s between me and danger but not between me and the exit.
Wait. No.
The thought washes over me like cold water and I tear my mouth away from his, shoving myself back.
The movement pulls at my injured arm, sending pain spearing through my shoulder.
Good. Pain is useful. Pain has never once tried to kiss me in a ruined arcade and made me question my entire life, personality, and spirituality.
Kaito stops instantly and not a second later. Not after one more kiss. And not after a growl or a grip or an Alpha demand.
Instantly.
His hands lift higher, palms open and away from me.
His body grows still so fast it almost hurts to look at.
My chest heaves for air, and his does too.
Rain hammers the broken doorway behind him.
My mouth burns where his lips touched, my scent is a catastrophe, and every single nerve inside my body is awake and screaming for things I blatantly refuse to translate.
Kaito’s voice is rough when he speaks. “Okay.”
That word again.
I hate it. I hate how much safety he packs into just two syllables. I hate that he didn’t make me fight for things to stop.
That kiss was dangerous, and that matters more.
I step back until my shoulder hits the opposite wall, knife already in hand. I don’t even remember drawing it, but Kaito doesn’t look at the blade. He looks at me. Not my mouth, not my body, but me. Which is worse. So much worse.
“It’s just biology,” I say.
My voice is too sharp. Too loud.
No one in the hallway speaks. Sweet. Awesome. Love that. Let’s just all enjoy the public execution of my fucking dignity.
Kaito nods once. “If that’s what you need it to be.”
I shove my bandana back in place as I bare my teeth. “That’s exactly what it is.”
“Okay,” he says.
“Stop saying okay,” I growl.
“Okay.”
I glare at him, and something almost like humor fills his eyes. For one brief, outlandish second, I want to kiss him again.
Nope. Absolutely not.
I turn away so fast that my wet braid tugs under Maine’s hat.
My hands shake as I adjust the brim, then my bandana, then the strap of my backpack, and then the knife at my side.
They’re useful movements. Practical. Movements that say nothing just happened except maybe a brief shared psychological episode caused by rain and poor ventilation.
Yeah. That’s it.
Ewan clears his throat from somewhere behind me, but I don’t turn around. Instead, I mutter, “I will not hesitate to remove each of your teeth individually.”
“I didn’t even say anything,” he argues, outraged.
“You didn’t have to,” I comment flatly. “I’m simply preventing future crimes.”
“Oh. Very proactive of you,” he says, like it’s totally reasonable.
“Ewan,” Fletcher says, trying to rein in the Welshman as if it’s even possible. Something tells me it’s not, and that’s a fucking problem.
“Right,” he answers shortly. “Teeth. Kind of like them. Shutting up now.”
Xeon’s voice comes from the floor near the pilot. “We need to keep moving. He’s getting worse.”
Oh, good. Movement. Movement I can do. Movement doesn’t ask questions. It doesn’t taste like burning wood and restraint. It doesn’t look at me like my stop is a law that needs obeying.
I step toward the market entrance, knife in hand and pulse still doing its very best to kick its way out of my throat.
My voice is rough but steady when I say, “Roof access is through the staff stairwell. We cross the market fast. Avoid the middle aisle, because there’s glass there. The water hides it.”
Fletcher nods once. “Lead the way.”
I expect the words to scrape at my already frayed nerves, but they don’t.
Maybe because he says it more like acknowledgement rather than a command.
Maybe because my brain is officially short-circuiting.
Maybe because Kaito is behind me, silent and careful and not touching the place I can still somehow feel him.
I walk first, because that’s what I do.
I don’t look back at Kaito. Not even once. Except maybe in the reflection of a broken arcade machine as we pass.
But that doesn’t count.
Obviously.