53. Say Please
"You remember her?"
"What?" I blink. "Who?"
"The woman in red." He glances at me. "The mother of the wolf that was killed."
Oh. That explains it.
I think the last time I saw her was in the woods, when she attacked me. Or was it at the compound? I can't remember.
Doesn't matter anyway.
"She hates me," I tell him as we walk through this labyrinth of tunnels.
"It's complicated."
"Is it? Seems simple to me. She wants to rip my throat out the next time she sees me."
"That won't happen."
I mumble something noncommittal, not really answering him.
He can have faith in his pack all he wants, but I know it's different for me. I'm human. Even though they were somewhat respectful toward me today, I'm not convinced it'll last.
He seems to notice my hesitation, because he stops walking. There's something in his expression I can't quite read.
"What happened when I was out?"
"What do you mean?"
"Communicator." His voice drops. "Be real with me. How did the pack treat you when I was out?"
I hold his gaze. "Well, how did you treat me when you couldn't remember me? That wasn't so long ago."
"Fuck."
He doesn't say anything else. Just stares at me, and I can feel his guilt bleeding through the bond.
Gotta get used to this again.
I take him in. He still looks a little dishevelled, his wounds mostly healed but still noticeable—maybe only because I know they were there.
The tunnel we're standing in isn't wide, and he fills the space with his frame. I think back to not even three hours ago, when he truly didn't remember me. I wasn't frightened then. I should have been.
Sometimes I forget he can be genuinely dangerous. He's built for fighting—his confidence, the way he leads his pack. All of it reflects that.
Humans and wolves have a history. He couldn't remember me, and he didn't treat me that badly. I think some part of him always knew me, which might be why I never felt unsafe around him.
Because even then, I knew he wouldn't hurt me.
I can tell he's still deep in thought. I don't want to press him, but his unhappiness, his guilt—even his shame—bleeds through so strongly I can barely separate it from my own feelings.
"What's bothering you?"
I watch his jaw work, like he's choosing his next words carefully.
"Did they hurt you?"
He runs his hands through his hair and looks at me with an expression of such despair that I inadvertently hold my breath.
Oh. So that's where his mind went.
"Please tell me," he says again. This time his voice is calm, soothing. And guilty. So guilty.
"They threatened to," I say, because I can feel he needs me to be honest right now. And they did. They threatened me. But what hurt the most—
I look at him.
"They hurt me by not letting me see you."
Uncertainty gives way to anger on his face. I can see the shift behind his eyes the moment I finish speaking.
"That won't happen again."
"Okay."
"I mean it."
"I know."
"You don't believe me?"
"No."
"Believe me when I say this." He holds my gaze. "You are safe. With me and with my pack."
I latch onto the last thing he said. "How do you know that? You think you just told them and they accepted me?"
He starts walking again, and I fall into step beside him.
"Believe me, if the pack didn't want to listen—didn't want to accept a decision I made—they would have shown it differently."
"How?"
"Always so curious." He pauses for a second, then continues. "They would have challenged me."
"Oh."
"And after challenging me, they would have done the same to you."
"That sounds... violent."
"Doesn't have to mean fighting directly. Could also mean just exile."
"Just exile." I snort. "That sounds horrible."
"Well, let's just say I was ninety percent sure they would accept us as bonded."
My mouth opens and closes.
Ninety percent.He gambled on ninety percent.
"Wow. Never knew you liked to gamble." I shake my head. "The more I think about it, the more I realize I have a lot to learn about you."
He stops walking. This time when he looks at me, his eyes have that intensity that makes my breath catch.
Then he reaches for my hand—his fingers warm, rougher than I expected—and pulls.
Gentle but deliberate.
One step. Two. Three. Until I'm right in front of him, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.
His gaze drops to my mouth. Stays there. My lips part without permission, and I can feel the heat radiating off him, can see the exact moment he decides to close the distance. He leans down, his intention unmistakable, and every nerve in my body lights up.
I push him back. My palm flat against his chest, his heart hammering under my hand.
The confusion on his face is instant. "What—"
"You need to sleep."
For a second, he just stares at me. Then he laughs—low and rough—and I feel it everywhere. He pulls me closer again, both hands on my waist now, thumbs pressing into my hip bones, and suddenly there is no space between us at all.
"I have to get used to that," he says, and his voice sounds different. Deeper.
"To what?"
"Getting ordered around by you."
I smile, even though my pulse is doing something entirely unreasonable. "Weird."
"Why?"
"You'd think by now you'd be used to it, since I started ordering you around the moment we met."
His laugh vibrates through his chest into mine. I let it settle there for a moment.
Then I lift my hand and let one fingertip trail up the side of his neck. Slowly.
His laughter cuts off like I flipped a switch.
I watch my own finger move, fascinated by the way his skin feels under mine. Warm. Alive. He swallows. Once. Twice. I can see every muscle in his throat working, feel his pulse jumping beneath my fingertip.
I drag my gaze from his throat to his mouth. His lips are slightly parted now, his breathing harder than it was a minute ago.
"Show me your room."
"Is that an order?"
I pull my hand back and let it drop. "It's a request."
"A request." He repeats the word like he's testing it. Then his fingers dig into my waist—harder this time—and his head drops to my neck. I feel his breath against my skin first, hot and unsteady, and then his mouth is right there. By my ear.
"Say please."
My knees actually go weak. I'm not embarrassed to admit it.
I laugh, trying to cover the fact that my breathing has gone completely uneven. "Could you please show me your room so you can go to sleep and rest, and I can make sure you're fine?"
He doesn't move for a long moment. His mouth still at my ear, his breath still doing things to my concentration. Then he lifts his head, and when I see his face, there's something there that makes everything in my stomach tighten.
"Of course."
But he doesn't let go. We stand there for three more heartbeats, before he finally steps back, his hands sliding from my waist slowly, like he's reluctant to break contact.
And all of a sudden, my excitement takes over. Because I'm about to see his room. The one place that is only his — not the pack's, not the compound's, not shared with anyone. And I want to see it. I want to know what his space looks like, what he keeps there, what it smells like.