Chapter 37
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
ASTER
I woke to sunlight streaming through the window and the absence of fire.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Reid's body wasn't burning against mine.
His skin was warm — normal warm, human warm — and his scent had mellowed from the sharp, demanding musk of rut to something softer.
Cedar and woodsmoke and satisfaction, with an undercurrent of tenderness that made my chest ache.
He was already awake, propped on one elbow, watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read. His dark eyes tracked over my face, my neck, my shoulders, cataloging something. It took me a moment to realize what.
The bruises.
They were everywhere — fingerprints on my hips, my thighs, my wrists. Bite marks on my shoulders that had bloomed into purple and blue overnight. Scratches down my arms from where I'd struggled against the sheets. Evidence of everything we'd done, written across my skin in shades of violence.
"I hurt you." His voice came out rough, cracked, his hand hovering over a particularly dark bruise on my hip without quite touching it, his jaw tight with guilt, his eyes shadowed with something that looked like self-loathing. "God, Aster, I hurt you. Look at you."
"You didn't hurt me." I caught his hand, pressed it flat against the bruise, felt the warmth of his palm against my skin, my voice firm and certain. "These aren't injuries. They're memories. Good ones."
"They're bruises." He pulled his hand back like my skin had burned him, his expression twisting with guilt, his shoulders curling inward, his scent souring with shame. "I was an animal. I took and took and I didn't—"
"You gave." I sat up, ignoring the ache in my muscles, the pleasant soreness between my thighs, and cupped his face in my hands, forcing him to meet my eyes, my voice fierce. "You gave me everything I needed. Everything I asked for. Don't you dare apologize for that."
"But—" He tried to look away, tried to pull back, but I held firm.
"No." I kept my grip on his face, kept my eyes locked on his, my thumbs stroking across his cheekbones, my voice softening but no less certain. "I asked you not to hold back. I told you to give me everything. And you did. That's not something to apologize for. That's something to be grateful for."
Something cracked in his expression — the guilt fracturing, letting something else through. Something vulnerable and hopeful and terrified all at once.
"I've never..." He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing, his hands coming up to cover mine where they held his face, his voice rough with emotion. "No one's ever stayed. After. No one's ever wanted to see me like that and still be here in the morning."
"I'm here." I pressed my forehead to his, breathed in his scent — so much softer now, so much sweeter without the sharp edge of rut. "I'm not going anywhere. You showed me your worst, and I'm still here. That's not going to change."
He made a sound — something between a laugh and a sob — and pulled me into his arms, burying his face in my hair. His purr rumbled to life, vibrating through both of us, and I felt something in him finally relax. Finally let go.
We stayed like that for a long moment, wrapped around each other, breathing together. Then he pulled back, his expression shifting to something more purposeful.
"Bath." The word was a statement, not a question, his hands already moving to help me stand, his touch gentle in a way it hadn't been for days. "You need a bath. Let me take care of you."
"Reid, I'm fine—"
"Please." The word stopped me, the raw vulnerability in his voice making my chest ache. "Let me do this. I need to... I need to make sure you're okay. That I didn't..." He trailed off, his jaw working, his eyes dropping to the bruises on my wrists.
I understood then. This wasn't about me needing to be taken care of. This was about him needing to take care of me. Needing to soothe the guilt that was eating at him, to prove to himself that he hadn't broken something precious.
"Okay." I let him help me to my feet, let him wrap an arm around my waist when my legs wobbled, let him guide me toward the bathroom with careful, reverent touches. "A bath sounds perfect."
The bathroom was warm, steam already rising from the tub he must have filled while I slept.
The scent of something floral — lavender, maybe — filled the air, mixing with his cedar and my honey to create something new.
Something that smelled like home. He helped me into the water, his hands gentle on my waist, his eyes tracking every wince and every sigh.
The heat felt incredible on my sore muscles, the water lapping against bruised skin like a gentle embrace.
"Is it too hot?" He knelt beside the tub, his fingers trailing through the water, his brow furrowed with concern, his scent spiking with worry every time I shifted.
"It's perfect." I sank deeper, letting the warmth seep into my bones, letting out a groan of pleasure that made him smile — just a little, just a crack in the armor of guilt he was wearing. "God, that feels good."
He reached for a washcloth, dipped it in the water, and began to wash me with a tenderness that made my throat tight. He started with my shoulders, working the cloth in gentle circles, pausing at every bruise to examine it, to press a soft kiss against the discolored skin.
"This one's from when I pinned you against the wall." His voice was quiet, his lips brushing against a handprint-shaped bruise on my hip, his breath warm against my wet skin.
"I remember." I reached down, ran my fingers through his hair, felt him lean into the touch like a cat seeking affection. "I remember asking you not to stop."
He moved to my wrists, where the bruises were darkest, where he'd held me down again and again. He washed them carefully, reverently, then lifted each one to his lips and pressed kisses to the marks his fingers had left.
"I'm sorry." The words were muffled against my skin, his eyes closed, his expression pained.
"I'm not." I pulled my hand free, cupped his chin, lifted his face to meet my eyes. "I wanted everything you gave me. I'd do it again. I'd let you mark me a hundred times over if it meant feeling that... that connected. That claimed."
His breath caught, his eyes going bright with something that might have been tears.
"You're incredible." His voice was rough, awed, his hand coming up to cup my face, his thumb tracing my cheekbone with impossible gentleness. "You know that? Absolutely incredible."
"So you keep telling me." I turned my head, pressed a kiss to his palm, tasted the salt of his skin. "Now stop apologizing and get in here with me. The water's getting cold."
He laughed — a real laugh, surprised and genuine — and stripped off his clothes before climbing into the tub behind me.
The water sloshed as he settled, his legs bracketing mine, his chest warm against my back.
His arms wrapped around my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder, his purr rumbling to life again.
We soaked in comfortable silence, the steam rising around us, the water slowly cooling. I could feel his heartbeat against my back, steady and strong, could smell his scent shifting from guilt to contentment, could feel the tension bleeding out of his muscles as he held me.
A knock at the bedroom door made us both tense.
"It's Nolan." The familiar voice drifted through the closed bathroom door, calm and professional. "I wanted to check on you both. Medically."
Reid's arms tightened around me, a low growl building in his chest, and I felt the last remnants of rut flicker to life — the possessive instinct to keep his mate hidden, protected, away from other Alphas.
"Reid." I put my hand over his where it rested on my stomach, my voice gentle but firm. "It's okay. It's just Nolan. He needs to make sure we're healthy."
The growl faded, replaced by a heavy sigh.
"Give us a minute." Reid called out, his voice rough, his arms loosening reluctantly. "We'll be right out."
We dried off quickly, Reid wrapping me in one of his flannel shirts that hung to my knees, the fabric soft against my sensitive skin.
His scent surrounded me, marking me as his even without the bite, and I saw his nostrils flare with satisfaction as he breathed it in.
Nolan was waiting in the bedroom when we emerged, his medical bag in hand, his expression carefully neutral.
But I could see the concern in his eyes, could smell the worry underlying his pine and antiseptic scent.
"How are you both feeling?" He set his bag on the bed, his movements calm and unhurried, his voice professional but warm, his eyes tracking over the visible bruises on my neck and wrists with clinical assessment.
"Sore." I admitted, settling onto the edge of the bed, feeling Reid hover behind me like a protective shadow. "But good. Really good."
"Reid?" Nolan turned to him, his eyebrow raised in quiet question.
"Fine." The word came out clipped, his hand finding my shoulder, his fingers curling possessively against my skin. "The rut's broken. I'm fine."
Nolan's expression shifted — something knowing and a little amused flickering across his features before he smoothed it away.
"I need to examine you both." He pulled a stethoscope from his bag, his movements practiced and efficient. "Standard post-rut checkup. Make sure there are no injuries that need attention."
The examination was thorough but gentle.
Nolan checked my vitals, examined the bruises with clinical detachment, asked questions about pain levels and mobility with professional care.
He was careful to explain everything he was doing, to ask permission before touching, to keep his scent calm and non-threatening.