Chapter 23 – WRAITH #2
She nods, not breaking eye contact. "Just a little. It's okay."
I shake my head.
"Yes, it is," she insists, her voice stronger now. Then she lifts her hand, slowly, deliberately, giving me plenty of time to pull away. To stop what she's doing.
I don't move.
Can't move.
"I'm not going to take it off," she reassures me softly. "I would never do that without your permission. I just want to make sure you know it's okay."
Her fingers brush against my mask, feather-light, just below where it covers my right cheek. The exact spot where it had slipped. Where she had seen what's beneath the thin fabric.
I flinch involuntarily.
A small, sharp motion that I can't control.
A lifetime of conditioning.
But she doesn't pull away. Her touch remains gentle, patient.
My throat constricts painfully, my scars aching again. The places where the acid ate through skin and tissue, damaging my vocal cords beyond repair. Stealing my voice. Leaving me with nothing but growls and half-learned signs to try to communicate the storm inside me.
She seems to sense the conflict raging within me. Her hand drops away from my mask, but she doesn't pull back. Doesn't create distance. Instead, she settles more comfortably against me, letting her head rest on my shoulder as she hugs me tighter.
In this moment, in this room, with this omega in my arms, something has changed. Some barrier I thought impenetrable has been crossed.
My arms tighten around her fractionally, an instinctive response I can't suppress. A need to hold her closer. To protect what has been entrusted to me. This precious, impossible trust that I've done nothing to earn.
She is so brave.
Even braver than I thought.
Another growl breaks the silence, so faint most people wouldn't notice. But I hear it clearly. Her stomach protesting its emptiness. The sound yanks me from my thoughts. I risk a glance down at her.
"Sorry," she mumbles, looking up at me. "I'm actually starving."
Fuck.
She needs better than microwaved noodles and soup.
My fingers move in the air between us.
T-A-K-E-O-U-T?
“That would be great,” she says, her mouth quirking up at one corner. “You’re, um. A very alpha kind of cook.”
I tilt my head and stare at her, not understanding.
“I think you just hit the highest microwave setting possible and put whatever you’re cooking in there for ten minutes.”
Is she... teasing me?
The realization is so unexpected that a strangled growl escapes my ruined throat. Not quite a laugh. Not capable of a normal laughing sound. But it’s close enough.
W-H-A-T… W-A-N-T? I sign.
She thinks for a moment. "I would kill for some pho."
I nod. I know a place three blocks from here. Open late. Good food. Kind people who don't mind that I have to write my order on a napkin.
"Really?" Her smile is brighter now.
I nod again, suddenly aware of how long we've been sitting like this. Her, still perched on my lap. My arms still loosely circling her. Hers still wrapped around as much of me as possible. My body still memorizing the weight of her, the exact shape of how she fits against me.
Like I have the right to remember these things.
She seems to notice too. She shifts again, attempting to get off my lap. "Oh, I should let you—"
Her feet tangle in the blanket, and she loses her balance. My hands shoot out to steady her, but too late.
She falls against me.
Her face comes level with mine, so close her breath fans across what little is exposed of my skin. Her nose brushes mine through the fabric of my mask.
If I wasn’t wearing a mask—no, if I were someone else entirely—our lips would be touching right now.
But that isn't possible.
Not only because she wouldn't want to, but because...
"Sorry." She gives a nervous laugh. A light, beautiful sound. She tries to right herself, but her knee slips between my thighs.
It presses against my cock.
Hard.
A jolt tears through me from where her knee connects with my hardened length, shooting straight up my spine. Every muscle in my body goes rigid. I freeze again, my breath hitching in my scarred throat.
Her eyes widen.
But she doesn't immediately pull away.
She swallows hard, her gaze meeting mine briefly before darting away. Despite the suppressants, her scent shifts, subtle but unmistakable.
Honeysuckle intensifying. Sharpening.
She shifts slightly, not quite pulling away. Bites her lower lip, her expression a mixture of surprise and something unreadable. The slight movement drags her knee against me. An involuntary growl rumbles in my chest.
"I—" she begins, her voice soft but steady. "I should move..."
But she doesn't, not immediately. She's caught in the blanket, but there's a hesitation that has nothing to do with being tangled. Her gaze lifts to mine, holding it for a heartbeat longer than necessary before glancing away again.
My hands finally move. Not to pull her closer as every instinct demands, but to hover just above her hips. Not touching. Not claiming. Just ready to steady her so she can pull away when she decides to.
When she remembers what I am.
For three thundering heartbeats, we're both frozen. I fight to suppress a louder, more primal growl threatening to tear free.
Her eyes meet mine again, more directly this time. So close I can see the darker blue and green flecks at the edges of her irises. Her body tense, not with discomfort but with awareness. Both of us feeling it.
What's happening between us.
Time stretches, elastic and strange. She doesn't scramble away in panic even though she's within inches of my face. Even though she's already glimpsed the nightmare.
My fucking cock throbs against her thigh.
I should be getting away from her before she thinks I'm no different from the alphas she's running from. Should be doing anything but sitting here frozen like a statue, staring at her.
There's a question in her eyes when they meet mine again.
I don't understand it, but I feel it.
Like a struck tuning fork.
My free hand lifts without my permission, trembling as it hovers near her face. Almost touching the curve of her jaw, the strands of dark hair framing her eyes. So close I can feel the heat radiating from her skin, but I don't make contact.
Don't cross that final line.
Don't take what isn't mine to take.
With agonizing effort, I tear my gaze from hers, forcing my body to relax. I ease her gently off me, careful not to let her slip again, settling her onto the couch beside me.
Every instinct rails against the loss of contact.
But I can't have this.
Can't have her.
She deserves better than a monster that lives in shadows and can't even show his face in public.
She deserves actual food, too.
I'm just glad she still has an appetite.
I tuck the blanket back around her, ensuring she's warm and comfortable. Her eyes follow my movements. Can't read the expression on her face. Looks curious. Still not afraid.
Why is she watching me like that?
Like she wants to ask me something.
My hands move slowly, deliberately, fighting their tremor.
R-E-S-T. I pause, then add, I… G-E-T… F-O-O-D.
She nods, pulling the blanket tighter around herself. "Thank you," she says softly.
I want to tell her to stop thanking me.
That everything I've done is so small.
Small things anyone should give her.
But my hands won't form the signs. They're too heavy with the weight of everything unsaid.
I reach up, fingers brushing over the stretched and partially torn seam of my mask. Can't go out like this. Can't risk the seam unraveling.
I cross the room to the dresser I put over the hatch in the floor, my movements still jerky with lingering panic. Heart still pounding harder than it should. I slide open the left top drawer and pull out one of the many nearly identical black masks I keep for exactly this reason.
Stepping into the bathroom and shutting the door behind me, I quickly swap the masks out. One second of complete exposure while I change masks. Even with the door shut, vulnerability claws at my spine. My hands are at least steadier as I secure the new mask in place.
Safe again.
Hidden again.
I let out a rough breath, tossing the torn mask into the trash can. Cool evening air rushes in to soothe my nerves as I slide the window open again and slip out.
When I glance back into the loft before dropping onto the roof, the omega is still on my couch. I memorize the sight of her wrapped in my blankets, watching me, a soft smile on her perfect lips.
I was supposed to protect her, then leave.
Let her bond with the pack if she wants.
With alphas who are normal, who can talk, who deserve to love an omega.
Alphas who aren't monsters.
Instead, I'm starving for her touch, craving her scent, planning to bring her favorite food, and worst of all… hoping she'll look at me like that again.
I'm fucked.