Chapter 38
thirty-eight
“Fuck. I really don’t know what I’m doing.”
I’m not sure what Prince Charming would have said in this situation.
Probably not that.
Also, Prince Charming most likely did not forget to look for his princess’s underwear when he saved her from that tower. And he most assuredly wouldn’t be stealing used ones out of her laundry pile like I did this morning when I stopped by Violet’s room and she wasn’t there…
I mean, Jesus. The guy defeated a fucking dragon. I couldn’t even beat a frying pan. Or the ungentlemanly urge to hoard her scent.
Call me sentimental, I guess, because I happen to know these cotton briefs are the same color as her eyes… and smothered in her scent. Which means they will remain tucked as deep into my pocket as I can get them.
It’s been a week since she arrived. So far, she hasn’t had any more major spikes. According to Doctor Google, that probably has something to do with Violet and Atlas figuring out how to seal off their half-bond so quickly. Either that, or my knot is simply magic.
Hey. It’s possible.
Ryker’s been doing his part, too. He spends every afternoon with her, usually locked in one of their bedrooms, making out.
Yeah, you heard me correctly. The two of them mess around like teenagers. Which might make me chuckle… if I hadn’t recently become a complete simp.
Truth be told, there’s little I love more than the way Violet glows with shy satisfaction every night at dinner, sneaking timid looks at Ryker’s profile while he overfills her plate to the point of insanity.
They’re fucking cute, okay? I can’t help but smile like a lunatic every time she blushes at him.
Unfortunately, I also cannot stop making an idiot of myself with this courting bullshit.
On paper, I’m doing all the right things. Telling her how stunning she is, bringing her presents, sitting beside her at dinner each night. Chasing the intimacy we shared during her spikes—and not just the physical aspect, either.
Every time I look into her eyes, I remember the perfect moment when I locked us together… and finally felt whole for the first time in my life.
She hasn’t invited me back into her bed again, though, or tried to get into mine. I don’t mind waiting. It’s just that… whenever I try to get closer to her, I somehow end up further away.
She’s wary of me, I think. Almost like someone filled her in on all my past misdeeds when I wasn’t looking. The thought has made me paranoid, and that insidious fear seeps into our interactions.
My jokes are too loud, my smiles too quick.
The presents I bring are both too much—too fancy, too expensive, too impractical—and not enough.
Pretty, not personal. Valuable, not meaningful.
No matter how hard I try to shut the fuck up, I talk straight through all of our evening meals, filling the silence so Ryker won’t have to…
even though I’m not really telling her anything.
What am I supposed to say, though?
Want to hear a great story about how I stole this house? Oh, and PS, I blackmailed Gideon once? Plus—bonus—my DNA is pretty crap, and so are the people who raised me?
I’ve been charming folks long enough to know she would run screaming if I said any of that. So I just keep… chatting. Blurting all the wrong jokes. Bringing her new baubles.
I’m not stupid. I notice that none of them make her grin the way her fluffy black kitten does. Or one of Gideon’s well-timed quips. Or Atlas’s little compliments about whatever sketches she leaves lying around the living room.
I just don’t know what else I can do. Not without revealing all the grimy, pathetic pieces I don’t want her to see.
If nothing else, the last week has allowed our girl to settle into a comfortable routine that includes all the things she used to love.
Gardening, sketching, sitting in the sunshine for hours on end.
Gideon gave her free rein of his craft room—and ever since, it’s rare to find her without a pencil in her hands or paint speckled on her cheeks.
She’s made special collars for Maximus and Pascal, along with a series of increasingly impressive watercolor works depicting the meadow.
She’s also revealed a delightful love for cooking.
It’s not unusual to find her in the kitchen around this time of day, presiding over some baking experiment or a big pot of comfort food.
Despite Gideon and Atlas eating on their own, she always makes enough for all of us.
It looks like today is no different. As I step onto the bottom step of the manor’s back staircase, I catch her at the stove, stirring something that bubbles.
Whatever it is, she’s worked hard on it.
Cutting boards and mixing bowls cover half of the formerly clean kitchen, along with several tomato-red splotches.
Whatever. For her? I’ll get on my hands and knees and scrub this place every damn day.
I watch for a moment, debating whether it’s a good time to interrupt.
This is another thing I can’t seem to get right, despite the fact that I’ve always prided myself on flawless timing.
It’s difficult to know when to interject, with Violet.
She just seems so damn content when she’s in her element. I hate to interfere with that…
I rub my freshly shaved chin, considering. There probably won’t be a better moment than this. Atlas and Gideon are happily ensconced in their room, and Ryker is working out…. Even Pascal is suitably occupied—snoozing in his basket beside the garden’s French doors.
I blow out a deep breath, glancing at my latest offering. The glossy gift bag dangling from my fingers reassures me. Because, yeah, my Alpha’s instincts are questionable, at best. But my taste in jewelry is sublime.
I imagine sliding up behind her without grazing her—grass-stained?
Or is that more paint? On silk? Oh God. Focus, Finn—periwinkle sundress…
or the pert little ass, framed by the bow of her blue apron.
If I keep my steps silent, could I reach around to cover her eyes with one hand and present my gift with the other?
C’mon. That shit sounds adorable.
Well. In theory.
When I actually make my move and clamp my hand over her eyes, Violet jumps a full foot in the air. Whirling with a shriek, she blindly snaps her hand toward the slab of marble beside the stove. Before I can move, she snatches the handle of her trusty frying pan, pivoting blindly.
Oh God.
Not again.
I try to duck, but it’s too late. I’m right behind her, and her aim is fantastic. The flat bottom of the pan collides directly with my nose.
I jump back, cursing viciously. Violet gasps, then whines loud enough to shatter glass. The sound scrapes the inside of my ears as her skillet clatters to the checkboard floor—
After bouncing off my big toe.
Of fucking course.
“Holy shit,” I hiss. Doubled over. Pinching the bridge of my nose. Hopping on one foot.
Resounding silence swells around me, punctuated by the occasional pop of her simmering sauce. As soon as I realize how stupid I must look, I right myself instantly, blinking around the throb lodged between my eyes.
But she isn’t here.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
Did I lose my omega?
Yet another thing Prince Charming probably never did.
Then again, I assume his princess didn’t brain him with a cast-iron pan. Twice.
Any semblance of humor or irritation falls away as I scan the room. A nervous quiver catches my eye… under the kitchen table. My heart drops to my feet.
Shit, shit, shit.
“Violet.”
I rush across the room, but that just sends her scrambling deeper into the dark. Panic blares in my blood, halting me. I sway, backing off and holding up my hands. One is still clutching the thick black shopping bag.
“Fuck, I didn’t mean to scare you, honey.”
Which is lame, because I have scared her. Who the hell cares that I didn’t intend to?
Her scent confirms her anxiety, the floral undertones smoldering into ash. I purr automatically. The rattle buzzes the lump at the base of my throat while my bruised nose pounds.
A thousand apologies swarm inside me, but Violet beats me to it. “I’m so sorry,” she cries, lurching onto her hands and knees. She starts to crawl out—and Jesus, duh, I should have helped her out—but her legs shake as she pushes to her feet.
I swoop forward, wrapping my arms around her waist as she grimaces at my swelling face. “I’m so sorry, Finn,” she gulps. “Oh God, do you need ice? Should I get Atlas or c-call someone?”
The urge to chuck my present aside is so strong, I give in. The bag goes flying, and I pull her closer, tucking her face under my chin so she doesn’t have to watch mine inflate.
“I’m okay,” I insist, smoothing out my purr. “It doesn’t even hurt that much. Nothing like the first time you knocked me out.”
I try not to cringe when my attempted grin causes a sharp, smarting pain. But instead of gracing me with her laugh for the first time, Violet tucks herself closer. Her voice gets smaller. “S-sorry,” she says again. “Really, Finn. I’m—”
She shakes her head against my chest. And I realize that’s as close as I’ve ever come to earning a scent-mark from her. This accidental nuzzle, while distress shivers down her back.
God. I’m fucking all of this up.
Seriously. Why has no one put me out of my misery yet? At this rate, I’m gonna call Dane Blackwood myself, tell him all the stupid shit I’ve done, and wait for that masked fucker to come garrot me.
Violet deserves better than this, damn it. She should have alphas who know how to light her up and make her feel safe. Instead, she’s stuck with Ryker’s mostly silent self and whatever the fuck I’m doing…
It isn’t enough. Not by half. Not for her.
My mind races, leaping through every moment we’ve spent together. Touching each time I felt even halfway sufficient. Trying to chain together any sort of pattern.
She cuddled in my lap the whole way home from the hospital, even though I had a concussion and barely knew how to purr for her.
She melted into my arms late that night…
but only after I stopped flexing and trying to make jokes.
Actually, didn’t I ask her the most helpless, un-sexy question ever? After I told her I was her mate…
Do you feel it?
Standing here, staring down into her teary eyes, it’s like I’m asking all over again.
Am I crazy to think I belong to you? Do you want me to? How can I make you smile? What helps you feel safe?
It was comfort, that night. And during her second spike? None of my flashy tricks got her to open her door, but Ryker’s raspy vulnerability did.
I gaze at her for a long moment, weighing my options. I could keep hiding behind strategically unbuttoned shirts and glossy gift boxes… Or I could give her something I’ve never given anyone else.
The truth.