CHAPTER ELEVEN - BIRDIE #2
I frown, but I suppose it’s not like he could do a worse job.
At my tentative nod, he drops to a knee, his breath feathering over my foot as he applies the polish with practiced ease.
I watch his efforts with growing frustration, because there should be some rule that Sasquatch-sized alphas struggle with things like this, but Hog makes it look like it’s second nature.
When he’s done, he blows on the polish, making my skin prickle.
It should be too much, too close, but it takes a lot of effort not to curl my gleaming toes in pleasure.
“You like my technique?” He’s still resting on his knee, his big hands cupping my feet.
The urge to pull away is strong, but something stops me, and he eventually releases them with a small smile.
“We use this stuff a lot in the field to patch holes in our gear and to make liquid bandages for cuts. If your rifle’s blacked out, a little dab can help you see your sights better. ”
I blink at this flurry of field knowledge, then bend over to study my toes. They’ve dried to a perfect polish, and for a moment I’m tempted to take the beach picture from my pocket to compare.
“You gonna drink this?” I glance up as Hog gets back to his feet and reaches for my smoothie. As tempting as it is, I’m not willing to risk another seizure, and Hog seems to understand my hesitation. “Your throat still sore?”
I give a wary nod, and he takes a small tin from the pocket of his cargoes. “I thought it might be, so I brought you something else.” He plucks a thin, pale green wafer from the tin and holds it up. It smells fresh and piney, like ginger and rosemary. “Remember this?”
Of course, I remember it. Next to the banana pudding, it was the best thing I’ve tasted in months. Okay, next to the pudding and Hog’s smoky almond fingers.
Pleasure curls in my belly, and not just because of the memory.
Hog looms over me, all thick shoulders and broad chest, but there’s not the usual violent urge to get away.
Even as my brain screams that he’s too big, too strong, too alpha, the rest of my body grows warm and loose.
Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at me, his eyes like molten honey, or maybe it’s his scent, teasing my senses with that hickory smoke I seem to like so much.
“It’s a numbing wafer,” he tells me, his brown eyes like liquid honey. “Melts in your mouth.”
Holding his gaze, I stick out my tongue. Hog grunts at the gesture, but his eyes are somber as he steps closer. “I’ve been thinking about what happened that day in the basement, Omega,” he says, scanning my face. “You were injured, going through something bad, and maybe I took advantage of that.”
My mouth snaps shut and I glare at him. Is he serious? I’m sitting here, my tongue literally hanging out, and he’s decided to grow some scruples. Wasn’t it damn obvious that I wanted his hands on me? That I was in control of my pleasure, even with a body ravaged by the doctor’s fucked up treatment?
“I’m just saying, I’ve been thinking about that a lot.
” He’s still holding the wafer, but his other hand curls around a strand of my ratty hair, his fingers rubbing together as if testing the texture.
“Your flavor is still on my tongue, and I want more of it so damn bad....” He sucks in a breath, the rasp like gravel, and his scent builds around us, thick and potent.
“But I could taste the hurt, too. It makes me sick to my gut. And the last thing I want is to add to that.”
My lips tighten, and I can feel an angry retort burning to break free. Enough of this mute shit. Pushing him back a step, I slide off the dresser and weave my way over to the bed. Grabbing the magazine, I flip it to the back cover and using Charlie’s pen, write: I wanted it. It helped.
When I hold it out to Hog, he peers at my scrawl and grunts. “Yeah, the wafer. But I did more than that.”
I scowl and add: My body. My rules.
Maybe there’s some corner of this world where you don’t have to spell that out to an alpha, but I’ve never found it.
Hog, to his credit, is already nodding. “Yeah, of course. I’m just saying that the medicine doesn’t come with strings. I just want to help.”
I ponder that for a moment and then add, because I’m too curious not to: Why do you have them?
Hog reaches for my hand, pulling it towards his face so that my fingers glide over his beard.
I’m distracted by the silky texture, but he presses harder, and I can feel a ridge of twisted scar tissue on his neck.
It’s thick enough – and close enough to his carotid artery – for me to work out that it was a near-death injury.
“Ricochet from an enemy sniper,” he tells me, releasing my hand. “Lucky shot. Or lucky that I walked away, I guess.”
I widen my eyes, wondering exactly how close he came to not walking away at all. I find another blank spot on the magazine cover and write: Does it still hurt?
He reads the question and then grimaces.
“It’s not great in the cold. The skin tightens, feels like someone has taken a bite out of me with icy teeth.
” His cheeks flush slightly, but he doesn’t drop his gaze.
“For a long time, I didn’t talk much. Some weeks, I didn’t think it was worth the effort.
And after a while, I realized I just didn’t have much to say.
Or anyone around who wanted to hear it.”
Strangely, I know what he means. Keeping omegas quiet and submissive was a central part of compound life, and at first, I fought against it, calling out my stepfather and questioning his rules.
But when a group of powerful men make it their mission to break your spirit, there comes a point when you have to wonder if speaking up is worth the pain.
And what was I going to say anyway? Stop treating us like shit?
It’s not like the alphas I grew up with were interested in rehabilitating their moral code.
“One day you’re gonna tell me what happened to you, Omega,” Hog says quietly, drawing me back from my bitter recollections. “And when you do, whoever stole your voice better like hearing the sound of their own fucking screams.”