19. Mara #2
My feet leave the floor as if I weigh nothing, and I instinctively wrap my legs around his waist. He holds me against the edge of the sink, his body a hard, warm line against mine.
The way he's grinding into me, the thick seam of my jeans pressing directly against my clit through the fabric, is a dizzying, perfect friction.
"Oh fuck," I moan, my head falling back against the cool windowpane behind the sink. The pleasure is sharp, immediate, overwhelming.
He pulls back slightly, his breathing ragged. "You okay?" he asks, his voice rough with concern and desire.
I nod, digging my hands into his hair, pulling him back to me. "Don't stop."
He grinds against me again, a roll of his hips that sends another wave of heat. I moan, a low, needy sound, and let him rock into me over and over again. I can feel his bulge swelling, pressing against me, a hard, thick promise that makes my own body ache with a need so profound it scares me.
"Fuck," he says, his voice strained. "Your scent… it's getting thicker." His breathing is labored, each exhale a warm puff against my neck. "I wish I could get us somewhere private," he groans, the words a desperate whisper. "Somewhere I could really taste you."
The thought of him fucking me, of being completely vulnerable and naked with him, makes my blood grow a little colder. The passion that was burning so hotly a second ago flickers, replaced by a familiar, icy fear. I hesitate. My body, which was arching into his, goes rigid.
He feels it instantly. He stops moving, his grip on me loosening as he pulls back just enough to see my face. His brow is furrowed with concern. "Are you okay?" he asks again.
I nod, but it's a jerky, unconvincing motion. "I… I just think we should maybe talk about it a little more," I manage to say, and it comes out as barely a whisper. "Before we… you know."
His expression softens with understanding, or what he thinks is understanding. "Is this about your pack?" he asks gently.
And that is when everything goes cold. The last trace of warmth vanishes, replaced by a bone-deep chill.
I push him gently, unwrapping my legs from his waist and sliding down until my feet are firmly on the floor.
I take a step back, creating space. "What are you talking about?
" I demand, sharp, defensive. "Did Leo tell you something? "
He looks genuinely confused, his hands held up in a gesture of surrender. "Tell me what? Mara, I was just… you got scared. I figured it was because of them, because of your past."
I wrap my arms around myself, a flimsy shield. "I don't want to talk about it," I say, my tone flat, final.
He takes a step closer, his movements slow, cautious. He takes my hand, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over my knuckles. The gesture is meant to be comforting, and it makes my skin warm, a traitorous response to his touch.
"You have to stop running from me," he says, his voice soft but firm.
"I'm not running," I lie, the words tasting like ash in my mouth.
"You should know," he continues, his eyes locked on mine, "that I will never judge you. Whatever they did, whatever happened… it's not your fault. I just want to understand."
I feel my stomach cramp up, and this time I know it's not a phantom heat symptom. It's nerves. It's the terror of his words, of his promise. Because he's wrong. He would totally judge me if he knew. He'd see me as weak, as insufficient, as needy. Just like Jonathan did.
"I don't want to talk about it," I repeat, my voice shaking slightly. I turn away from him and turn on the taps, the rush of cold water a welcome distraction. "Let's just get these cleaned up."
He clears his throat, the sound awkward and loud in the small kitchen.
"Okay," he says quietly. He says nothing more as we work side by side, washing and drying the dishes in a tense silence.
The clink of porcelain and the hiss of the water fill the void between us, each sound a reminder of what was just lost.
Once the last mug is put away, he turns to me. He leans in and presses a soft, gentle kiss to my forehead. It's a kiss of apology, of goodbye. "Good night, Mara," he murmurs, and then he's gone, leaving me alone in the quiet kitchen.
I stand there for a long moment, my forehead still tingling from his kiss. I hope that when I head upstairs, Tess will be asleep, lost in dreams of her new future. I need to be alone with my thoughts.
She's not. She's sitting up in bed, a book in her lap, but she's not reading.
She's waiting for me. As she starts talking, excitedly recounting every detail of her phone call with Professor Alden, all I can think about is how wrong Daniel is.
His promise, his belief in his own lack of judgment—it's a fantasy.
He would totally judge me if he knew the whole truth, if he knew what a willing, pathetic participant I was in my own undoing.
And that's a secret I can never let him find out.
The world is a haze of heat and shattered glass.
I'm back in the mansion, but the walls are melting like wax, dripping onto the marble floors.
Jonathan's voice is there, a cold, sharp echo calling me "insufficient," but it's distorted, underwater.
Mason is laughing, and the sound is too loud, vibrating through my bones.
I try to run, but my feet are stuck in thick, syrupy honey.
Then another scent cuts through the cloying sweetness—cedar and sage. Daniel. He's calling my name, his voice a warm anchor, but I can't see him. He's just beyond the melting walls, and I can't reach him.
"Mara! Mara, wake up!"
The voice is real, insistent, shaking me.
My eyes fly open, but the feverish haze doesn't dissipate.
It clings to me, a heavy, suffocating blanket.
Tess is leaning over me, her face pale in the dim light of the room, her hands gripping my shoulders.
Her eyes are wide, but not with excitement this time.
They're filled with a terrifying, glassy panic.
"I don't… I don't feel so good," she whispers, the words slurring. Her grip on me loosens, and her eyes roll back in her head.
Before I can even process her words, she collapses. It's not a graceful faint; it's a dead weight, a sickening thud as her body hits the wooden floorboards. The sound shatters the last remnants of my dream, replacing it with a cold, sharp reality.
"Tess!" I scream, scrambling off the bed, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Tess, wake up!"
I shake her, but she's completely limp, her head lolling to the side. Her skin is clammy, almost gray. Panic, pure and paralyzing, floods my veins. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely get a grip on my phone from the nightstand. I need to call 911. I need to call Gray. I need to do something.