Chapter 18
They’d run off like their asses were on fire.
I couldn’t believe it. Water pelted the top of my head and traveled down my body, taking the soap with it until I was nice and clean.
I turned the spout to shut it off, then reached past the heavy black curtain to grab one of the neatly folded towels on the shelf above the toilet.
I’d never seen them so . . . off-kilter.
As much as they tried for nonchalance, I could taste their anxiety.
They were running.
And it filled me with so much power. I felt drunk with it.
After making quick work of drying myself off and scrunching my hair with the towel, I wrapped it around my midsection and tucked it around my body. A very small part of me hated that I no longer had Alpha scent all over me.
That was the very reason why it was so important for me to shower. I was softening—crumbling like a poorly constructed tower.
I shuffled out, my slippers loud against the floor. Sinclair lay back on the couch pillows, his body limp and sinewy, like he was boneless. A clear box with a notable red cross sat beside him.
The same thought that crossed my mind when he first tended to my stitches returned. He didn’t seem the type to be so good at first aid.
I knew more than anything that there was always a deeper story . . . I just couldn’t correlate ‘healing’ with the rough, vulgar Alpha, but Elias’ earlier reaction told me there was way more to their past than I could have guessed.
“You should have waited,” he rumbled in the deep, accented tone.
“I had to clean off.”
“For me,” he finished.
Oh, he hadn’t completed his sentence. I looked at him, unimpressed, and went to his side to perch on the bed. He hoisted himself up like it was the most laborious act he had to commit and plucked up my wounded arm, turning it.
“That’s attached to me, you know?”
Sinclair’s lips twisted into a smirk, but he didn’t take my taunt, beginning to rifle through the box. He took out small scissors and brought them to the edges of my wound, where the stitches had been ripped out.
“I’ll clean this up a bit before fixing the stitches.”
He was explaining what he was doing, now?
“You didn’t seem the nurturing, gentle-touch type,” I started, and then paused, not knowing how to proceed.
He chuckled. “I fought a lot as a kid, so I had to get good at it.”
I hummed, watching his tattoos undulate.
This was the first close-up I’d gotten of his ink where I could take in the image.
I focused on the tips of the angel wing poking from under his sleeve.
It stretched until the middle of his bicep, then it became a collection of chrysanthemums. Their base turned into smoky tendrils, leading to the dark, shadowed section where there was a lit candle.
The same smoke curled down to his wrist, as if reaching for his fingertips.
With the angle of his wrist as he finished tending to the stitches, I managed to read the word across the inner side.
“What does Aroha mean?”
His shoulders tightened along with the line of his lips.
“It has multiple meanings.” He paused. “Love and shite like that.” There was a pinch in my arm. God, that hurts.
“And it’s important to you?” I tried to keep the wheeze out of my tone. As curious as I was, I was trying to distract myself. My grunt turned into a hiss. I bit the inside of my cheek.
“My parents used to say it all the time to me,” he finally said. “Before they died in a car accident.” I stiffened, stunned to stillness. “You pity me.” He didn’t ask.
I stopped myself from denying it. “It’s more empathy than pity.”
A flicker of something crossed his features, furrowing the sharp turn of his eyebrows.
Whatever was going through his head didn’t seem pleasant.
“Are you okay?” I touched the back of his hand, and he reacted as if I’d put a taser to him.
His nostrils flared, and his honey-brown irises were overtaken by the expanding pupil.
He inhaled in a gust. A visible tremble shook his body.
I started to retreat, but his hand flipped and grabbed hold of mine.
Warmth seeped from his skin. Unmistakable hunger flickered over his expression, calling to me like a magnet. I swayed toward him, and he mimicked my move until his minty breath puffed against my lips.
“Does the rest of the tattoo mean anything?”
He leaned even closer. “Nope. I was pissed.” His lips grazed mine with his explanation, making it take a moment for me to understand that he meant he was drunk. Kiss . . . kissing him was a bad idea. A flash of his mouth fused to the other woman in The Bordello invaded my head.
I turned just before his lips met mine, and they pressed to my cheek.
Not out of jealousy, nope, not even a bit of that. It was pure self-respect; they weren’t mine, and they would never be.
Still, his warmth leached into my cheek, and warmth flooded up. I hadn’t blushed like this since I was in high school. And why was he lingering?
Such an innocent touch from a vulgar man. He slowly lifted his lips from where they’d connected with my skin. Were those butterflies from a kiss on the cheek?
I blinked at him, his gaze as intense as I’d seen it. His lips were slightly parted, the curve of his Cupid's bow softened. I met his intense gaze, and as I watched, the glaze disappeared.
He sucked in a gust of oxygen like he was trying to reset himself. He finished cutting the thread, busied himself by putting everything away, and then slapped a bandage on the stitches, making sure the sides adhered to my skin.
It was a good thing I’d be leaving soon. I wasn’t going to be able to protect my heart much longer.
And I did not want to give my heart to Greymont Pack—I wasn’t a masochist.
Pain would accompany any relationship with them. I had no doubt about that, but despite knowing that to my core, it didn’t take away my temptation.
“All done—wait.” He narrowed his eyes, some of the humor returning. “You have something . . .” He trailed off, and his hand somehow found itself on my ass. He groaned, his fingers squeezing the flesh.
“How many times has that move worked?” I drawled. Thank God there was a blanket between his skin and mine. Sinclair gave another squeeze and chuckled; the deep sound fired lust through my already sensitive body.
“I don’t need tricks,” he murmured against my ear huskily. “Only this delectable arse in my hands.”
“Where’s Elias?” My question blurted from me, nerves roaring forward. Was Sinclair making me nervous?
The quirk of his lips told me he was well aware, and I wanted to smack both of us. Him for his smugness, and me for my horny Omega instinct. I lifted my legs to curl them under my ass, tugging the blanket tighter around my waist.
The side of my hand brushed against my legs, and it prickled on my palm. “Do you have a razor? I have to shave.”
“Shave?” His eyebrow went up. “I don’t know. I’ll have to inspect.”
He caught my ankle and forced it out from under my thigh while at the same time pushing me onto my back as he leaned forward and over me.
I gasped, staring up at his face hovering a few inches over mine.
He delved under the blanket twisted around my calf and slid his palm upward, opposite the hair growth.
“Hmmm.” His honey-brown eyes glinted with mischief. “Maybe I want to try you au natural.” His hand traveled higher to my hip, his thumb pressing into the crease of my thigh.
My thoughts had become a scrambled mess under his touch and sudden proximity.
I whipped my head toward the creak of the door.
“Well.” Kyan cleared his throat, eyebrows raised with a pointed look at Sinclair. I rolled my head to the Alpha still hovering over me. A tic started up in Sinclair’s cheek.
“Sin, you need to contact someone for me,” Kyan mumbled, distractedly looking over his shoulder.
Sinclair’s lips thinned. “We’ll continue this later.” With those parting words, he rolled off the bed, taking his heat with him.
“There’s paperwork I have to get done,” Kyan announced and, without compunction, left on Sinclair’s heels, leaving the door cracked.
“Don’t forget to bring a razor to my room!”
I didn’t get a response. I huffed, tossing my limbs out like a starfish.
They kept running off like the devil was on their heels. If I wasn’t taking a shower every day, I’d be sniffing myself to see whether I stank.
As soon as their footsteps fully retreated, I stood, shuffling to the doorway. I poked my head out. A big part of me was hoping they hadn’t really left, so we could—
Stop being obsessive.
I straightened, shaking my head at myself, and hurried to the room I was staying in like my ass was on fire.