Chapter 29 – WRAITH #2
Fingers tracing the waistband of my sweatpants.
I pull back slightly, searching her eyes.
"I want this," she says softly, answering my unasked question. "I want you."
My heart slams against my ribs.
Want her so fucking bad it hurts.
But I need to be sure.
Need to know she's sure.
She sees the question in my eyes. "Yes," she whispers. "But if we're going to do this... I think I should tell you something first."
I tilt my head, questioning.
Worrying.
"My name isn't Hannah," she says, her eyes never leaving mine. "It's Ivy. My real name is Ivy."
Ivy.
It suits her.
Resilient. Strong. Beautiful.
I nod, unsurprised. I knew Hannah wasn't her real name. Never believed for a second that the name on her badge belonged to her. It felt wrong somehow. Didn't match her. Not in spirit.
I shift my weight to free one hand, signing her name by her face, the letters flowing from my fingers. I-V-Y.
She watches the movements, then smiles. "And you? Do you… have another name besides Wraith?"
I shake my head.
Surprise and something like concern flicker across her features. "You've always been called Wraith?"
My hand moves to answer.
The signs come easier now.
Not shaking so badly.
N-O… B-U-T... O-L-D… S-E-L-F... D-E-A-D.
Her brow furrows slightly, but she doesn't push. "The person you were born as is gone?"
I nod again.
That boy died a long time ago.
Wraith is what rose from the ashes.
A shadow.
A ghost.
"Wraith," she murmurs softly, testing the name on her tongue. Not questioning anymore. Accepting. Her fingers return to the waistband of my sweatpants, slipping just beneath the edge. "If you knot me, it will, um… it will hold the heat off so I can build a proper nest."
The air leaves my lungs in a rush.
The idea of being inside her…
Of knotting her…
Of her building a nest in my bed…
Can't think about anything else now.
All I can do is nod, unable to sign coherently.
Again.
She watches me carefully, searching my face—at least, what little she can see of it above my mask. Her fingers trace my waistband, each small touch sending electricity through my veins.
"Take your shirt off?" she asks softly. "I want to see you."
My entire body goes rigid.
Last time she saw those scars, it was an accident.
Not on purpose.
And not like this.
Not with her wanting to… touch them. Deliberately.
Her hand rests on my chest, warm and steady.
"You don't have to," she adds. "We can just—"
I shake my head, cutting her off.
I want to give her this.
Even if it scares the shit out of me.
Slowly, I pull back, straightening up to kneel on the bed in front of her. Her hands fall away. The loss of contact leaves me cold.
My fingers find the collar of my shirt, hesitating there. My eyes never leave hers as I try to read what she's feeling. Try to prepare myself for her reaction.
She props herself up on her elbows.
She's watching me.
Her lips parted and eyes bright.
Do it quickly.
Like tearing off a bandage.
Yank my shirt up over my head in one fluid motion.
The cool air of the loft hits my exposed skin.
Goosebumps prickle across my scarred chest.
I hold the shirt crumpled in one hand.
My other arm hangs at my side.
Vulnerable. Exposed.
But there's something impossible in her eyes.
Hunger.
Her pupils are blown wide.
Her chest rises and falls rapidly beneath the sweatshirt she borrowed from me, her scent spiking with need.
She still wants me.
Her hands reach for me, hesitating just before making contact, giving me a final chance to pull away. I stay perfectly still, barely breathing as she grips my shoulders and draws me back down.
My arms cage her in again.
I'm afraid to move as her hands explore my bare chest.
Gentle.
Always so gentle.
Her touch maps me with deliberate care, tracing each scar, each ridge and valley of muscle beneath damaged skin.
"Holy shit," she whispers. "You're like a god carved from stone."
Can't process her words.
Can't make them fit with my reality.
My heart hammers against her palms.
My breathing quickens.
No one has ever touched me like this.
No one has ever looked at me like this.
"Does it hurt?" she asks softly.
I shake my head.
Old scars.
No physical pain.
I reach up.
Can't stop myself.
My palm finds her cheek.
Thumb caresses her parted lips.
This omega is a beautiful, impossible creature.
Holding my gaze, she turns her face.
Nuzzles into my hand.
Presses a soft kiss to the center of my scarred palm.
Knocks my breath out of my lungs.
Feels like if I breathe, this might end.
She reaches down, grabs the hem of the sweatshirt I gave her, and pulls it up and over her head.
I almost choke on my own breath.
Her skin glows in the dim light. A simple black sports bra hugs the gentle curves of her breasts. She's thin—evidence of weeks of hiding and not enough food—but still soft in all the places I'm hard.
My eyes catch on her burn scar.
The one at the juncture of her neck and shoulder.
The place where an omega mark, and a mating mark, used to be. The scar is angry, red and raised and fresh against her otherwise smooth skin.
Scars, I understand.
I lift my hand, hesitating, looking to her. She nods, giving permission. I let my fingers brush the raised skin. A barely-there caress. She tenses slightly but doesn't pull away.
"We match," she whispers, a small, sad smile playing at her lips.
We do.
Both survivors.
She wriggles out of her bra, baring herself to me.
Beautiful.
So fucking beautiful.
I'm desperate to touch but not sure if I can.
She takes one of my hands in hers and guides it to her breast. "It's okay," she murmurs, her eyes never leaving mine. "I want you to touch me."
Her breast fills my palm, soft and warm. I'm afraid of hurting her, of being too rough, but she arches into my touch, a soft sigh escaping her lips.
Encouraged, I let my thumb brush across her dusky nipple, watching in fascination as it hardens at my touch. Her sharp intake of breath tells me I'm doing something right.
I try it again, a firmer touch this time.
She moans, her head falling back slightly.
The sound shoots straight to my cock, already hard and straining against the confines of my sweatpants.
Her hands find my shoulders, steadying herself as she leans forward to press her chest against mine. The feeling of her bare skin against my scars sends fire racing through my veins.
Never felt this before.
Skin against skin.
Her soft breasts pressed to my marred chest.
"Lay down with me?" she asks, already shifting back onto the mattress, pulling me with her.
I follow willingly, positioning myself above her again, careful to keep most of my weight on my forearms planted on either side of her head. My hair falls forward, tickling her face.
She reaches up to brush it back, tucking it behind my ear and under the edge of my mask with a gentle touch that makes something in my chest ache.
Don't understand how she sees me.
Can't reconcile it with what I know I am.
But I want to believe her.
Want to see myself through her eyes, just for tonight.
Her hands trace down my chest again, lower this time, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of my sweatpants with more confidence now. She looks up at me, a question in her eyes.
I don't stop her.
She pushes the fabric down over my hips, and I shift my weight to help her. The sweatpants and boxers slide down, freeing my cock. Her eyes widen at the sight of it, hard and heavy.
Am I too big for her?
Am I going to hurt her?
Never done anything like this. Have no idea how to knot her without splitting her open.
Fuck—
"Can I?" she asks, interrupting my thoughts, her hand hovering just above where I'm achingly hard for her. She licks her lips and her scent spikes with arousal so strong it makes my head spin.
I nod, not trusting myself to move.
Her fingers wrap around me, barely meeting around my girth.
Her touch is experimental at first, exploring the length and width of me with curious fingers. When her thumb circles the head, spreading the pre-come already beading on the tip, a low growl rumbles up from deep in my chest.
Hate my fucking beast sounds.
She just grins at me.
Clearly, she likes that.
Brave, crazy, beautiful omega.
"You're huge," she whispers, but there's no fear in her voice.
Just wonder.
And want.
"Touch me first," she purrs, shifting beneath me. Her hands move to her waistband, pushing down her pants and underwear in one smooth motion.
She's naked beneath me now.
Completely bare.
Vulnerable.
Trusting.
She bends her knees, letting them fall open to cradle my hips. I scent her arousal even through my mask, sweet and honeyed, mixing with her wild honeysuckle scent.
I let my hand travel slowly down her body, learning the curves and planes of her. The gentle swell of her breasts. The dip of her waist. The flare of her hips. She watches me, eyes dark with desire, her breath coming in short, quick gasps.
When my hand reaches the juncture of her thighs, she spreads her legs wider in invitation. I hesitate, suddenly uncertain. I've never done this before. Never touched an omega like this.
Never touched anyone like this.
"Please," she whispers.
That single word cuts through my hesitation.
I let my fingers brush against her, finding her slick and hot.
So wet already.
For me.
My rough fingertips explore her gently, learning the shape of her, the places that make her gasp and arch.
Her wetness coats my fingers as I circle her entrance, careful not to hurt her. My thumb slides against the bud above her folds and she jerks beneath me, a soft cry escaping her lips.
"Yes," she breathes, her hands clutching at my shoulders. "Like that."
I circle that sensitive spot again, watching her reaction carefully. Learning what she likes. Her head falls back against the pillow, eyes closing as she gives herself over to the sensation.
Slowly, I press one finger inside her, growling softly behind my mask at the tight, wet heat that greets me.
She's so small, so tight.
And I'm so fucking big.