Chapter 15 Candy Land – Amara
CANDY LAND
AMARA
I’M NEARING THE end of Vexar’s wound where it curves up towards his groin, and I have maybe ten minutes before I’m going to have to figure out how to handle that.
It shouldn’t be an issue, but with Vexar, the thought of having my hands so close to his groin is nerve-wracking.
Which is insane. I’ve always been able to handle medical procedures just fine, no matter the location or the person.
I mean, I spent eight years of my life treating dudes whose primary medical concerns were STIs.
Needless to say, I’ve seen a lot of dicks in my time.
But with Vexar, things feel different, and I can’t seem to find that place of mental-detachment.
“Do you have family?” he asks, propping his head up by tucking his hand underneath the pillow.
“Why do you ask?”
“You do not like answering questions, do you?”
I’m about to scoff when I realize he’s sort of right. “I guess I’m just not used to talking about myself.” Over the past year, I’ve had to be guarded, and it’s kept me alive and mostly sane.
He hums. “When you leave here, will you want to go home?”
I tighten my grip on the needle driver and start in on the next suture. “You do realize that I’m probably not leaving here, right?”
“You are leaving here,” he states firmly.
It’s clear fighting him on this is pointless, so I let it go and say, “I haven’t really had a chance to think that far ahead.”
“Do you have any family to go back to? Friends? A mate?”
“I don’t know.” The only real family I have is Marta, and she was 84 when I was taken. Her health seemed good at the time, but at that age, things can change quickly.
“What do you mean?”
“My grandmother. She’s my only family, and she was old when I last saw her. I don’t know if she’s still alive.”
He shifts beneath me, and I almost stab him with the needle. “How long was your journey here?”
I don’t have a way to answer that, so I just shrug. There wasn’t a way to tell time in that box. No lights or windows. No clocks.
He studies my face before asking, “Do you have parents?”
“Of course I have parents, I wasn’t born in a lab.”
He looks entirely unimpressed, and for some reason, it’s hilarious. A smile breaks my face and suddenly, I’m laughing. To my surprise, he grins and his chest starts to shake as he winces in pain from the suppressed laughter.
When I catch my breath, I apologize for making him laugh. It’s clear laughing is painful.
“I am fine. Do not worry about me,” he says.
“It’s hard not to worry when you hide your pain so well.”
His expression turns darkly curious, like he’s trying to look inside my head and see what I’m thinking.
Feeling exposed, I drop my eyes back to his side and clear my throat. “I do have parents, just not anymore,” I say lightly. “I never knew my dad, and my mom died when I was fifteen.”
“I am sorry,” he says.
I wave the forceps in a dismissive motion. “It’s fine. It was a while ago. Besides, my grandmother is one hell of a woman. She filled the shoes of both parents easily.” I smile, thinking about Marta. “You and her would get along,” I say glibly. But it’s true. I think they would.
“Tell me about her.”
And I do. I tell him the story of the time she picked me up from school with a dead deer in the back of the truck because some tourist hit it with their car.
According to her, “You should never let good meat go to waste”.
I tell him about the time I started a fire in the microwave, and Marta casually put it out by tossing a handful of sand onto the flames.
“I still don’t know why she had a pocket full of sand,” I say with a laugh.
When I tell him the story about Marta chasing a raccoon away from our chicken coup in the dead of winter, barefoot, with nothing but a brick, he looks shocked.
“Are they dangerous?” he asks, referring to the raccoon.
“Sometimes. They’re small and adorable, but they can be vicious when they want to be. And they have claws.”
A grin splits his face as he nods towards me. “Reminds me of someone.”
My cheeks heat, and I drop my gaze back to what I’m doing.
I’ve finally reached the point of his wound that I’ve been dreading, and I still don’t have a plan.
I set everything down and take a moment to think.
From my position on the floor, I can’t really reach without contorting my arms and hovering an elbow over his groin.
As far as plans go, that’s not one I’m comfortable with.
But the alternative is to sit on the edge of the bed, and that just feels so …
intimate. Then again, what choice do I have?
With a mental shove, I force myself to my feet. “Are you ok if I sit on the edge of the bed? I … uh, I can’t reach from down there.”
He nods and shifts to the side, making room for me.
A bead of sweat drips down my spine as my stomach tightens. Nothing about this feels purely medical anymore, and I don’t know how to handle that. The heat in his gaze is suffocating, but for some reason, I have no desire to extinguish it.
Holding my breath, I lower myself onto the mattress.
My hip presses against his thigh, and a ripple goes through his body, muscles tensing and relaxing in a strange sequential motion.
It’s easily one of the most alien things I’ve seen him do, and for a moment, I can’t stop staring, wondering if it might happen again.
“Are you ok?” he asks, dragging my attention back up to his face. The green of his eyes is gone, taken over by a shimmering black.
“Uh, yeah,” I whisper, “are you?”
Silently, and without breaking eye contact, he takes my right hand and guides it to his abdomen. That small action sends my mind reeling as the sensation of tightening flesh creeps over my entire body, all the way up to my jaw.
Right. Ok. He’s fine with me touching him now. Good to know.
With fumbling hands, I adjust the lamp and open a fresh suture packet. My heart thrums in my throat, pounding against each breath as I lean over his hip and start to stitch.
His skin is warm and soft. Thinner here than on his ribs. It should be painful, but he isn’t flinching or tensing at all, and now it’s clear his earlier reactions to my touch had nothing to do with the pain.
His gaze runs like fingers over my flesh, tracing the lines of my face, my neck, and down my body.
The heated weight of his attention burns my skin and has me nearly panting.
My nipples harden beneath my dress. Stomach tightens.
Vexar’s chest rises and falls with short, hungry breaths as his left hand indents the skin of his uninjured hip, pressing down with every plunge of my needle.
The atmosphere of restrained need is so thick I can hardly see, and by the time I tie off the last suture, my mouth is dry and I’m glistening with sweat.
“I’m done,” I say breathlessly as I stand to put away the equipment.
Before I can take a step, Vexar’s hand catches my stomach, holding me in place. The heat of his touch ripples out, curling around my sides.
“I … I have to get a bandage,” I stutter out.
His fingers retreat slowly, trailing over my hip with a molten promise that weakens my knees. I know if I let myself look at his face, I won’t be able to look away.
What started as a quiet tug in my gut has become a gravitational force that’s sapping away my resolve and begging for my surrender.
And I want to surrender. I want to give in and let myself believe that there’s still good in this world—that after everything, I can still find joy, and comfort, and pleasure.
But the logical part of me is pushing back.
It says I’m imagining his desire. That he’s too good to be true.
That I need to stay focused. That if I give in to this, it will only make what comes next harder.
He can’t save me. I have to remember that. I have to remember why I’m here.
Vexar watches me through the dim light as I get a bandage, lay it over his side, and start taping it in place. When I let go, the tape peels back. His skin is damp with sweat and hot to the touch.
“Shit.” I prop my hip on the edge of the bed and press my hand to his forehead. “Do you feel like you have a fever?”
His left hand wraps around mine, warm and strong, and he guides my palm down to his chest, holding it over his heart. “I do not have an infection, if that is what you are asking,” he rumbles.
A deep yearning burns in his black eyes, like he’s struggling to stop himself from grabbing my face and kissing me. I suck in a breath as his right hand ghosts over the skin of my knee, and any doubt I had about his desire evaporates.
I spin out of his grip before I do something I can’t take back. “Uh, the tape won’t stick,” I say, moving to grab a roll of wrap from the med-bag. “I, uh, have to wrap it … uh, the bandage, on you. Can you sit?”
Vexar pushes himself up, letting his legs drop over the side of the bed. His lips part, his head cocks, and he watches me with those dark, curious eyes.
Doing my best to ignore the ache between my legs and the growing bulge between his, I step up to the edge of the bed, directly between his thighs, and press the end of the wrap over the bandage. “Can you hold it there?” I ask.
His fingers brush over mine, and before I can pull back, his chest vibrates with an inaudible rumble. I don’t know what that sound means, but it sends a jolt right through me.
I step back, off-balance and breathing so much harder than I should be. My body’s on fire and I don’t know how to stop it.
Sure, I think Vexar’s extremely attractive and nearly irresistible, but this can’t happen.
I don’t need a distraction, I need revenge.
Besides, he’s not even human, and I doubt we’re even compatible.
And yet, I can’t seem to resist his pull.
He’s drawing me in like I’m starved, and he’s the best buffet I’ve ever seen.
I don’t get it. I thought I was the one with the experience, but right now he’s playing 4D chess and I’m playing fucking Candy Land.
Catching my breath, I unroll the wrap and try to focus. Vexar’s torso is massive. There’s no way for me to pass the wrap around his waist without hugging him, and I’m definitely not doing that. I doubt I’d be able to reach around him anyway. He’s a fucking mountain.
Feeling a bit like a child, I climb onto the bed and walk over the mattress behind him, pulling the wrap across his back and passing it under his arm.
He lets out a chuckle as I repeat my circles.
I want to chew him out for laughing at me, but at this point, if I open my mouth, there’s no telling what will come out.
When I reach the end of the roll, it’s clear I’ll have to step between his legs again to secure it in place.
Trying to ignore the fluttering in my stomach, I step forward, bringing my face within inches of his.
His warm, spicy scent surrounds me as I dip my fingers beneath the wrap, tucking the loose end under.
“Stay,” he whispers, almost too quiet to hear.
Slowly, I meet his gaze.
Let me lose myself in you, his eyes seem to say.
Calloused fingers run up my wrist. I’d forgotten I was still touching him.
With soft movements, he guides my hand to his chest as I lose myself in the depthless, midnight oceans of his eyes.
There’s a hopeful caution in those eyes as he releases my hand.
He wants to know if I’ll stay, and, against my better judgment, I press my palm more firmly to his skin, letting my eyes fall shut as I soak in the delicious feeling of being this close.
“Your heart beats faster when you touch me,” he says as his hand slides back over mine.
And he’s right, my heart fucking roars when I touch him.