Chapter 29 – WRAITH
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
WRAITH
Time stops.
Her words hang between us.
"I need you. I want you to help me through my heat."
My brain can't process them.
Can't make them fit into any reality I understand.
She can't have said what I think she said.
No one wants me.
I'm frozen, staring down at her. At this beautiful, brave omega curled against my side, asking for the impossible.
She watches me.
Patient.
Waiting for a response I can't form.
The scent of wild honeysuckle wraps around me, warming with the beginnings of her heat despite the suppressant.
The biological pull is undeniable.
But biology isn't enough to overcome what I am.
My hands lift between us, trembling so violently I can barely form the signs. I have to try three times before my fingers cooperate.
Y-O-U... S-A-W... M-E.
Her brow furrows, confused. "Yes? And?"
I struggle to understand how she doesn't get it. How she can't comprehend the reality of what's beneath my mask. Even the glimpse she caught should have been enough to send her running.
M-E, I emphasize, pointing to my masked face, my scars, the horror I keep hidden.
"Wraith," she says softly, propping herself up on her elbow to face me more directly. "I told you, it doesn't matter what you look like."
It does matter.
It's all that matters.
She doesn't understand.
Can't understand.
If she knew the full truth...
I can't spell it out the way I need to with shaking hands, but I have to make her understand.
N-O... F-A-C-E, I sign, struggling to control the tremor in my fingers as shame burns through me. S-H-A-R-P... T-E-E-T-H... A-L-W-A-Y-S... S-H-O-W-I-N-G.
I watch her expression carefully as it sinks in. Her pupils dilate slightly. A hint of fear spikes in her scent—so brief I might have imagined it—but her face remains soft. Compassionate. She shows no disgust, no recoiling.
She's being kind.
That has to be it.
Does she think she owes me for protecting her?
For bringing her medicine and food?
For giving her a safe place to stay?
But she doesn't owe me anything.
Anything at all.
"I wasn't seeing things, then?"
Not a question.
I shake my head, unable to meet her searching gaze.
I… A-M... N-O-T… H-U-M-A-N.
The words tear at something deep inside me as I sign them.
Wish I could lie to her.
"Don't say that," she says quietly, her voice pained. "Don't even think it."
But these aren't words of self-pity.
Not seeking reassurance.
They're simply fact.
As undeniable as gravity.
As irrefutable as blood.
Can't explain this to her.
She would lie to comfort me.
Because that's who she is.
Kind. Compassionate. Pure.
Too good for the darkness I carry.
"Wraith," she says, her voice impossibly gentle.
It takes everything I have to lift my gaze to hers. Her eyes are clear, steady. All I find there is acceptance.
I don't understand.
"Can I..." she hesitates, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Would it be okay if I touched your face? Through the mask, I mean. I won't try to take it off."
My entire body goes rigid.
The thought of hands on my face—even through the mask—sends searing pain flooding my system.
Acid burning through skin, muscle, bone.
Bandages being changed, tearing at raw flesh.
Surgeon trying to fix what can't be fixed.
No. No. No.
She reads my panic instantly. Her eyes soften with understanding.
"You're afraid I'll run," she whispers.
A statement, not a question.
I give a jerky nod.
"I won't," she says, her voice low and sure. "But you can hold me. Keep me from running if you're worried."
My breath catches in my throat.
"Come here," she murmurs, lying back on the bed. She reaches for me, eyes never leaving mine. "I'm not going anywhere."
I move over her with hesitation, my massive frame dwarfing her smaller one. Position myself above her, arms planted on either side of her head. My choppy black hair falls forward as I hover over her, the strands brushing against her forehead.
I'm careful to support my weight on my forearms, hyperaware of how easily I could crush her.
She's trapped now.
Caged between my arms.
Yet she shows no fear.
Just looks up at me with trust in her eyes.
"Is this better?" she asks.
It shouldn't be.
But it is.
I nod, a short, sharp movement.
My entire body trembles as her delicate hands reach toward my face. Blood pounds in my ears so loudly it almost drowns out the ragged sound of my own breathing. She moves slowly, deliberately, giving me every chance to stop her.
I don't.
Can't move.
Can't breathe.
Can't do anything but hover above her, frozen, as her fingertips make contact with my masked cheek.
The touch is feather-light through the fabric. Gentle. Exploring. She traces the line of my jaw beneath the black cloth. Her fingers slide up to my temple, across my forehead where the scar cuts through my eyebrow, continuing down to outline where a normal person's cheek would be.
Feels like I'm going to puke.
Or pass out.
Both.
"Your bone structure is incredible," she whispers, tracing the line of my jaw again. "So strong. You have a warrior's face."
What?
All I can do is let out a confused growl.
The words don't make sense.
Can't make sense.
But she isn't mocking me.
She must be, but she isn't.
Her fingers continue exploring my mask.
My straight nose.
Then down to where my mouth is.
Jaws. Not mouth.
Her scent spikes with nerves again.
She must feel the change beneath her fingertips.
Must feel my sharp teeth.
This is it.
The moment reality finally catches up with me.
The moment our scent match fails.
Can that even fucking happen?
If it can, it will.
I close my eyes, turn my head away.
Can't watch.
Can't take it.
She pauses.
There's a slight catch in her breath.
"Can I ask you something?" she whispers.
I nod, dizzy with fear.
"Why are they so sharp? Your teeth…"
Fuck.
A direct question.
Impossible to avoid.
My hand lifts from the mattress to sign, still supporting my weight with my elbow and my other arm.
M-O-D-I-F-I-E-D… T-O... E-A-T.
She waits, sensing there's more.
C-O-M-P-L-I-C-A-T-E-D, I add, fingers stumbling over the letters.
Can't explain.
Don't have the ability.
Barely clinging to sanity right now.
Her hands leave my face.
I brace myself, waiting for her to push against my chest. To struggle.
To demand release from this cage of muscle and bone.
Then her palm finds my cheek again.
Turns my face back toward her with gentle insistence.
"Look at me," she whispers.
Can't.
Keep my eyes shut tight.
Steeling myself against the inevitable.
"Wraith, please."
The soft plea in her voice finally breaks through.
I open my eyes.
Meet her gaze with reluctance.
What I see makes no sense.
There's no horror.
No revulsion.
No disgust.
"You're… beautiful," she says.
The words hit like she punched me.
I flinch away from them.
Must have misheard.
Or she's lying.
Lying to spare me.
But her eyes hold steady on mine.
Ocean eyes unflinching and sincere.
"You are," she insists, as if reading my disbelief. "You have the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen. So blue. Like arctic ice, but warmer."
A hallucination.
Has to be.
I'm losing my mind.
I shake my head hard, desperate denial.
I should pull back.
But I don't.
Can't bring myself to increase the distance between us.
She just smiles.
A soft, sad smile.
It hurts.
"I wish you could see yourself the way I see you," she murmurs. Her fingers trace up to my eyes again, outlining the shape of them through my lashes.
Can't breathe past the lump in my throat.
Can't do anything but stare down at her.
She lifts her head slightly, bringing her face closer to mine. "Can I kiss you?"
The question doesn't register at first. The words reach my ears but fail to form meaning in my brain. Impossible syllables that can't possibly be meant for me.
"Wraith?" she prompts gently.
Kiss?
Me?
I lift my hand to sign again.
H-O-W?
"Through the mask," she says, understanding immediately. "Just to feel you. To be close to you."
My brain short-circuits completely.
The concept is alien.
So far outside my reality, I can't process it.
My breathing comes faster now, edging toward panic.
W-H-Y?
"Because I want to," she says.
As if it's the simplest thing in the world.
She reaches up.
Slowly.
So slowly.
Giving me time to pull away.
Time to stop her.
I don't.
I can't move.
Can barely breathe.
Can only watch as she lifts her head from the pillow.
Her eyes drift shut.
Her full lips part slightly.
The first press of her mouth against mine—through the fabric—is so gentle it's barely there. A whisper of contact that rocks through me like an earthquake, destabilizing everything.
She's kissing me.
Me.
Her lips move against the fabric.
Soft and warm and impossibly tender.
Not demanding, not afraid.
Her hand comes up.
Cradles the back of my neck.
Fingers tangle in my hair.
I remain frozen above her.
Overwhelmed.
The soft pressure of her mouth.
The sweet scent of honeysuckle filling my lungs.
The heat of her body beneath mine.
And her scent…
It's blooming.
A low, shuddering growl builds in my chest.
My arms slide beneath her back.
Forearms tense beneath her as I cradle her.
Holding her close.
Muscles strain as I fight to maintain control.
I'm caging her completely now.
My massive body surrounding her smaller frame.
She doesn't seem to mind.
She doesn't seem afraid.
She arches into me instead.
Her hands slide down from my face to my shoulders, exploring the width of them, the hard muscle beneath my shirt.
Her fingers trace lower, over the planes of my chest, lingering on the ridges of scar tissue she finds there. I tense again, but she just continues her exploration, learning my body with curious, gentle touches.
When her hand reaches my stomach, my abdominal muscles jump beneath her fingers. She smiles against my masked jaws.
Clearly, she's pleased.
By what? My reaction?
Her palm spreads wide.
Fingers splaying over my muscles.
Then her hand moves lower.
Deliberate.
Unmistakable.