Chapter 9 #2
"Mikey," she said softly. "Let me take care of you. Please. I need to do something with my hands other than wring them."
I let out a breath. "Okay."
I reached down and grabbed the hem of my compression shirt. I pulled it up and over my head, wincing as the movement stretched my bruised lat.
I tossed the shirt on the floor.
Lydia sucked in a breath.
I looked down. My torso was a map of the game. A massive purple and black bruise bloomed across my ribs where a stick had caught me. My bicep was swollen. And the old scars—the runes, the claw marks from my father—stood out starkly against my pale skin.
"Jesus, Mikey," she whispered.
She reached out, her fingers hovering over the bruise on my ribs.
"Does it hurt to breathe?" she asked, her voice professional now.
"Only deep breaths," I said.
She touched it. Gently.
Her fingers were cool. My skin was hot. The contrast sent a jolt through me that had nothing to do with pain.
"No crepitus," she muttered. "Ribs seem intact. Just soft tissue damage."
She moved her hand up to my shoulder. She started to massage the trap muscle, digging her thumbs in.
"You're so tight," she murmured. "You carry everything here. The fear. The anger. The responsibility."
"Comes with the territory," I grunted, closing my eyes. Her hands were magic. They were melting the armor I wore.
"It shouldn't," she said. "You're twenty-two. You shouldn't have to carry the weight of a dying father and a terrifying future all by yourself."
"I'm not by myself anymore," I whispered.
Her hands stilled on my neck.
"No," she agreed softly. "You're not."
She moved around me so she was kneeling on the bed behind me. She started working on my upper back, her thumbs tracing the lines of the Nordic tattoos.
"What do these mean?" she asked quietly. "The runes?"
"Protection," I said. "Strength. Clarity. My mom had them done when I was sixteen. After... after the first incident. She thought maybe the old magic would help keep the Wolf sane."
"Did it work?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "I think the ink just gave me something to look at in the mirror to remind me I wasn't him."
Lydia leaned forward. I felt her breath on my skin, right between my shoulder blades.
Then, I felt her lips.
Soft. Warm. A feather-light press against the black ink of a rune.
I shuddered violently. My hands gripped the duvet covers.
"Lydia," I warned, my voice strangled.
"Shh," she whispered against my skin. "I'm healing you. It's alternative medicine."
She kissed another rune. Then another. Moving up my spine.
"Kissing the monster doesn't make him a prince, Lydia," I rasped.
"I don't want a prince," she murmured, her hands sliding down my chest, wrapping around me from behind. She pressed her front against my bare back. "Princes are boring. Monsters are... complicated. And loyal. And they have really nice backs."
I groaned. I couldn't take it anymore.
I turned around. Fast.
I grabbed her waist and pulled her into my lap. She straddled me instinctively, her knees bracketing my hips. We were face to face. Chest to chest.
She was still wearing the hoodie. I put my hands under it, sliding them up her bare back. Her skin was soft, warm silk.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Mouse," I said, looking into her whiskey eyes. They were blown wide, dark with desire.
"I'm tired of playing safe," she whispered. "I almost lost you tonight. To the scout. To your head. I want... I want to know you're here. With me."
"I'm here," I swore. "I'm nowhere else."
I kissed her.
This wasn't the frantic kiss of the hallway. This was slow. Deep. Drug-like.
I tasted the chamomile tea on her tongue. I tasted the salt of her earlier tears.
She tasted like forgiveness.
My hands roamed her back, learning the curve of her spine, the dip of her waist. She arched into me, pressing her center down against my erection.
I hissed through my teeth.
"Mikey," she whimpered, breaking the kiss to bury her face in my neck. "Your room. Your bed. No Jagger."
"No Jagger," I agreed, biting the cord of her neck. "Just us."
"Take it off," she said, pulling at the hoodie. "I want skin."
I helped her pull the hoodie off. She wasn't wearing a shirt underneath, just a lacy grey bra that matched the one from last night.
She was beautiful. In the dim light, with her hair messy and her lips swollen, she looked like a goddess of war and comfort.
I reached out and unclasped the bra. It fell away.
I stared. I couldn't help it.
"Beautiful," I breathed. "So beautiful."
She flushed, trying to cover herself with her arms.
"Don't hide," I commanded gently, pulling her arms away. "Let me see you. Let me worship you."
I leaned forward and kissed the swell of her breast. She gasped, her fingers tangling in my hair.
"Mikey," she cried out.
"I've got you," I murmured against her skin.
I laid her back on the bed. The sheets were cool, but we were burning.
I hovered over her, bracing my weight on my forearms so I wouldn't crush her. I looked down at her. She looked up at me with total trust.
"Are you sure, Lydia?" I asked, my voice serious. "Because if we do this... the line is gone. There's no going back to 'just friends' or 'just tutor'. This changes everything."
"I don't want to go back," she said, reaching up to trace my lip. "I want to go forward. With you."
"Okay," I whispered. "Forward."
I kissed her again, and this time, I let the Wolf out. Not to hurt, but to love. To devour the distance between us until there was nothing left but sweat, skin, and the undeniable truth that we belonged to each other.
I reached for the button of her jeans.
"Mikey," she whispered, her hips lifting to help me.
"Yeah, baby?"
"Don't be gentle," she said, echoing my words from the tub. "I won't break."
I smiled against her mouth.
"I know," I said. "But I'm going to be careful anyway. Because you're precious."
And then, I stopped talking. The time for words was over.
The silence of the room was filled with the sounds of zippers, rustling sheets, and heavy breathing.
And for the first time in my life, the noise in my head was completely gone.