Chapter 26 #2
He drops to one knee in front of me. He unlaces my boots then pulls them off, setting them neatly side by side.
“Do you want me to help you with your jeans?” he asks. His tone is clinical, not suggestive. He’s just being Rhett. Taking care of me.
“I can do it,” I say. I stand up and unbutton my jeans. I shimmy them down, kicking them off. I climb into bed in my T-shirt and underwear.
He pulls the quilt up over me. Tucks me in.
“Do you need anything?” he asks. “Water? Aspirin?”
“Bucket,” I say. “Just in case.”
He smiles. “Coming right up.”
He disappears into the bathroom. I hear water running. He comes back with a small trash can and a glass of water. He sets them on the nightstand within easy reach.
“Drink,” he commands.
I sit up and take a sip of water. It’s cool. It helps.
He stands there, looking down at me. The room is quiet. The only sound is the rain tapping against the window.
“Stay,” I say.
He pauses. “What?”
“Stay,” I say again. I reach out and grab his hand. “Please don’t leave. I don’t want to be alone.”
He looks at our joined hands. He looks at my face, searching for something.
“I’ll be right here,” he says. “I’ll sit in the chair. I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Stay here. In the bed.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Saramaria.”
“I’m not asking for sex,” I say, though the thought makes my skin flush. “I just… can you sleep in my bed with me? Please, Rhett.”
He studies me for a long moment. Then he sighs. A sound of defeat.
“Okay,” he says.
He walks around to the other side of the bed. He kicks off his shoes. He lies down on top of the covers, fully clothed.
He lies on his back, staring at the ceiling.
I curl up next to him. I don’t touch him. I just let his presence anchor me. I can smell him—cinnamon and espresso and the scent of rain that still clings to his clothes.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Go to sleep, Saramaria,” he murmurs.
I close my eyes. The room is dark. The bed is soft. Rhett is warm.
The alcohol drags me down. The spinning slows.
“Please don’t leave,” I mumble again, the words slurring together.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says.
I believe him.
Darkness rushes up to meet me, and I let it take me.
Sunlight hits my eyelids like a sledgehammer. I groan, turning my face away from the window, but the movement sends a spike of pain through my skull. My head feels like it’s been split open and stuffed with cotton.
I try to bury myself deeper into the pillow, seeking the cool side of the mattress, but I realize with a jolt of clarity that I’m not wearing pants.
I peel my eyes open. The room is bright. Too bright. The morning sun is streaming through the slats of the blinds, cutting across the floorboards in geometric beams. I’m in my bedroom. The bedroom Rhett and Boone put back together for me.
I’m lying on top of the quilt. My jeans are gone. My boots are gone. I’m wearing only my T-shirt and a pair of cotton panties.
And there’s an arm around my waist.
It’s heavy, warm, and distinctly male.
I freeze. My heart hammers against my ribs, displacing the hangover headache for a split second of panic. I shift my head slightly.
Rhett is asleep beside me.
He’s lying on his back, one arm thrown over my stomach, pinning me to the mattress. He is fully dressed in the sweatpants and T-shirt he wore last night. He looks peaceful, his breathing deep and even.
“Rhett?” I croak. My voice sounds like sandpaper dragging over gravel.
He stirs. His eyelids flutter. He blinks, his focus sharpening as he sees me.
“Hey,” he says. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a truck,” I mutter. I try to sit up, but the room tilts dangerously. I fall back against the pillow.
“It’s so hot,” I say. It’s true. Even with the window open, my skin feels sensitive, prickling, like there’s an electric current running just beneath the surface.
Rhett reaches out. He places the back of his hand against my forehead.
“You’re a little too warm,” he says, his brow furrowing. “You might have a fever. The tequila probably didn’t help.”
“I don’t get fevers,” I say, though the admission sounds weak even to me. “I get stress headaches.”
“Well, you have a fever now,” he says. He pulls his hand back, brushing a stray hair away from my face. His touch is gentle. Too gentle. It makes my chest ache.
I look at him. I look at the way his arm is still resting on my waist, like he has a right to be there.
“You stayed,” I say.
He pauses. “Of course I stayed.”
“Why?” I ask. “I told you to stay, but I was drunk. You didn’t have to listen.”
Rhett lets out a breath. He props his head up on his hand. “Because you asked, Saramaria. Because you were scared and you needed someone. And you should know by now that if you asked any one of us—me, Boone, Knox—we would have stayed. We wouldn’t have hesitated.”
I stare at him. The simple honesty of the statement hits me hard.
“You like me?” I ask. The question slips out before I can stop it. It’s pathetic, maybe, but I need to hear him say it.
Rhett swallows. I watch his throat work. He looks away, toward the window, then back at me.
“You know I do,” he says softly.
He leans in. He presses a kiss to my forehead. His lips are dry and warm against my overheated skin.
“You’re burning up,” he says, pulling back. “Let me get you some Gatorade. You need to hydrate.”
“Wait,” I say, grabbing his wrist. “Don’t go.”
“I’ll be right back,” he assures me. “I’ll be two minutes.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
He slides off the bed. I watch him walk out the door, the silence of the house settling around me.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling. My head throbs in time with my pulse.
Memories of the night before flicker through my mind. Josie behind the bar. The shots. The laughter. The money. The feeling of victory, of hope.
“Josie,” I moan, covering my face with my hands. “Oh god.”
Did I really do seven shots? Did I really tell everyone to give me their money?
“Did I throw up?” I ask the empty room when Rhett walks back in.
He’s holding a bottle of blue Gatorade and a glass of water. He shakes his head. “No. You were surprisingly cooperative. You just wanted your bed.”
He opens the Gatorade and pours some into the glass. He helps me sit up, supporting my back with his hand.
“Drink,” he says.
I take the glass. The liquid is cold and sweet, artificial and wonderful. I down it in one long go.
“Thanks,” I say, handing the glass back to him.
He sets it on the nightstand and sits on the edge of the bed, watching me.
I shift uncomfortably. The heat isn’t going away. It’s getting worse. It feels like ants are crawling under my skin. I feel restless. Anxious.
“What is it?” Rhett asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I just feel... hot. And weird.”
I look at him. He is so close. I can smell him—cinnamon and espresso. It makes my mouth water.
“Are you scared of us?” he asks abruptly.
The question catches me off guard.
“What?”
“Are you scared of us?” he repeats. “Of me? Of Boone? Of Knox?”
I look down at my hands. They’re shaking.
“I’m not scared of you hurting me,” I say slowly. “I know you won’t hurt me. But...”
“But what?”
“I’m scared of losing myself,” I admit. The words feel heavy, like stones dropping into a deep well.
“I’m scared that if I let you in, if I let this.
.. this thing between us happen... I’m going to disappear.
I’m going to become just an Omega. Just a part of a pack.
I won’t be Saramaria anymore. I’ll just be. .. yours.”
Rhett is quiet for a long time. He reaches out and takes my hand. His palm is rough, callused, grounding.
“Saramaria, you’re stronger than any bond. You’re stronger than biology. You’re stronger than me.”
I look up at him. His eyes are dark, serious, filled with a light that makes my breath hitch.
“Thinking that being with us will erase you is an insult to who you are,” he says.
“We don’t want a version of you that is submissive or silent.
We want you. The loud, stubborn, brilliant, terrified version of you.
The one who burns the barn down. The one who saves dogs from wells.
The one who challenges us at every turn. ”
He squeezes my hand. “That woman isn’t going anywhere. Not for us. Not for anyone.”
The softness in his voice nearly undoes me. It breaks apart the walls I’ve been building for eight years. It shatters the defenses I’ve been hiding behind since I came back to Muddy Creek.
“Rhett,” I whisper.
A wave of heat rolls through me. It’s not just the fever. It’s something else. It’s an ache. A deep, pulsing need that starts in my core and radiates outward.
My body flushes. I gasp, squeezing my eyes shut.
“What is it?” He sounds concerned.
“I don’t know,” I say, my breath hitching. “I just... I need...”
I don’t know how to say it. I don’t know how to tell him that my skin feels too tight, that the emptiness between my legs is aching, that I feel like I might die if he doesn’t touch me.
He must smell it. He must scent the shift in my pheromones.
He goes still.
“Is it an urge?” he asks.
I nod, my face burning with shame. “Yes. It hurts.”
“Can I help you?” he asks. His voice drops an octave. It drops lower, becoming a rumble that I feel in my bones.
I look at him. I see the desire in his eyes, warring with the restraint. He wants to help. He wants to take away the pain.
“Please,” I whisper.
He doesn’t hesitate.
He moves closer. He doesn’t undress. He just reaches under the quilt. His hand is warm, his fingers long and sure.
He slides his hand into my panties.
I cry out, my back arching off the bed. The contact is electric. It relieves the ache instantly, even as it stokes the fire higher.
“Shh,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
He strokes me, his fingers finding my clit with an accuracy that terrifies me. How does he know? How does he know exactly where to touch, how much pressure to apply?
I bury my face in his shoulder, muffling my cries against his shirt.
“Good girl,” he whispers when I start to tremble. “Let it out.”
The pressure builds. My hips buck against his hand. I cling to his shoulders, my fingers digging into the hard muscle of his arms.
“Rhett,” I gasp.
“I know,” he says. “I’ve got you.”
He pushes two fingers inside me. I stretch around him, my inner muscles clamping down. It’s not enough. I need more.
“Harder,” I beg.
He adds a third finger. He curls them, finding that spot that makes me see stars.
I come apart with a cry that is half-sob, half-moan. My body seizes, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over me, washing away the fever, the headache, the fear.
I collapse against him, limp and spent.
He doesn’t pull his hand away immediately. He holds me there, gently stroking my back, letting me ride out the aftershocks.
“Better?” he asks.
“Yes,” I breathe. “So much better.”
I lift my head. My eyes meet his.
“Thank you,” I say.
He smiles. It’s a small, crooked smile. “Anytime.”
I settle my head back on his shoulder. I can smell his scent, mixed with the smell of my own arousal. It should be embarrassing. It should be shameful.
But it feels right.
“Go to sleep,” he says.
“I am,” I mumble.
I close my eyes. The fever is gone, replaced by a bone-deep weariness.
I’m safe here. I’m safe with him.
I have always been safe with them.