“Don’t touch me.” The words came out as a whisper, but they might as well have been screamed. She pulled her knees up, making herself smaller, and the defensive posture broke something inside me.
“I’m sorry,” I repeated, the words pathetically inadequate.
I scrubbed my hands over my face, feeling the tremor that had become my constant companion. She watched me from her defensive position against the headboard.
The accusations in her gaze cut deeper than I had ever expected. What would I have done if she hadn’t woken up? Would I have choked my mate to death?
30
— • —
Damon
I leaned in without a word, pressing my lips to the side of her neck where my fingers had left bruises minutes earlier. A soft kiss landed first, then another just above it, gentle, deliberate. I followed the curve of her throat, found the faded scar beneath her ear, the one my claw had carved months ago when I’d let rage replace reason.
I paused there, breath held. My chest ached at the sight of what I had done. Then I kissed it, lightly, reverently. Her groan rumbled through both of us. Her body arched toward me. It wasn’t pain. It was a sound soaked in heat, memory, surrender. I stayed there, kissing the broken places. Not because it would undo the harm, but because she hadn’t stopped me. Because she still let me close enough to try.
She read the intent in my eyes, she’d always been able to read me, even when I couldn’t read myself. She should refuse. Should maintain the armor of anger that had kept her alive through exile. Instead, she arched her neck, the tiniest movement, but permission nonetheless.
When she didn’t pull away, I grew bolder. Each press of lips became an apology. Each brush of tongue turned into a plea for forgiveness I didn’t deserve. I traced the evidence of my violence with reverent gentleness, trying to erase harm with tenderness.
She made a sound, not quite moan, not quite sigh, and her hand came up to tangle in my hair. Not pulling me away. Holding me there. “Tell me to stop,” I murmured against her skin, feeling her pulse accelerate under my mouth.
“I can’t.” The admission came out broken, like it cost her something to voice.
I sat back just enough to grip the hem of her oversized shirt. It smelled like her, worn soft from too many washes. I pulled it up slowly, giving her every second to object. She didn’t. When I stripped it over her head and tossed it aside, she was bare from the waist up. The sight hit me like a blow. Full breasts flushed with color, soft skin stretched tight over the evidence of our child. Her nipples peaked under the brush of cooler air. My hands, reverent, framed her ribs while I stared.
“Perfect,” I murmured, voice low. “Every inch of you drives me fucking insane.”
I eased her back against the pillows, moving slowly enough that she could stop me at any point. Her eyes stayed on mineas I positioned her carefully, mindful of her changed center of gravity, the new weight she carried.
“Beautiful,” I murmured, letting my hands map changes that months had wrought. The swell of her belly where our child grew, fuller than when I’d seen her at the diner, the pregnancy advancing despite the hardships she’d endured. Her breasts had grown too, heavy with impending motherhood. New curves had emerged, softness where she’d been angular. “So fucking beautiful.”
She made a skeptical sound. “I’m swollen. Tired. Nothing like...”
I silenced her with a kiss, swallowing the self-deprecation. When I pulled back, I let her see the truth in my eyes. “You’re carrying my child. You survived what I put you through. You’re the strongest, most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
The words were inadequate but honest. When my mouth followed my hands lower, trailing kisses down her throat, I paused at the swell of her chest. I kissed the curve of one breast, then the other, letting her feel how much I worshipped every change. My tongue flicked lightly over one nipple, and she gasped, her back arching as the bud tightened beneath the heat of my mouth. I circled it, sucked it gently, let my teeth graze just enough to draw another sound from her throat.
Her skin tasted like salt, the moment charged with her scent and my hunger. I moved to the other breast, giving it equal reverence, mouthing and licking until she squirmed beneath me, her hands fisting the sheets, her thighs shifting as if trying to relieve the ache building below. Only then did I trail lower, across the taut skin of her belly, feeling her go soft under each kiss. She stopped thinking entirely. I could tell by the way herbreath hitched, the way her hands clutched the bedding instead of pushing me away.
I took my time, relearning her body with the focus of a man trying to memorize sacred texts. I hooked my thumbs in the waistband of her leggings and pulled them down her hips, baring her completely. I was glad to find her naked beneath. I lowered my head and kissed the soft mound above her center, breathing in the scent rising from the fine strands that covered her.
I parted her folds with my fingers and leaned in, nuzzling the tender skin there. Her thighs tensed around me. What happened in the diner had been pure wolf instinct, a desperate collision. Tonight was different. Tonight was about worship. I tasted her slowly, reverently, letting her scent drown me. My hands held her thighs wide while my mouth moved with care and hunger in equal measure.
She arched off the bed with a cry she tried to muffle. Aware of guards outside, Nathan and whoever else standing witness to my shame, she bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. But I was relentless, using tongue and fingers to worship her, to apologize in the only way that felt real. I reached up, fingers brushing her breast, then pressed her hand to it.
“Twist your nipples,” I said roughly. “Chase it. Let go for me.”
Her fingers obeyed, rolling the sensitive peak as I pushed two fingers deep inside her, curling with every stroke. She moaned helplessly, hips rocking in rhythm. I watched her unravel, driven by her own hands and the pressure of my mouth, until her muscles clenched tight and her orgasm shattered through her again.
I read her responses like battlefield intelligence, the way her thighs trembled when I found the right angle, how her breathing changed when I increased pressure, the particular sound she made when close to release. Her pregnant body responded differently than I remembered, more sensitive in some ways, requiring gentleness in others. I adjusted, adapted, focused entirely on her pleasure.
When release crashed through her for the third time, she bit her pillow to muffle my name. But I heard it anyway, “Damon!” and something in my chest cracked at the sound. Not quite healing, but maybe the possibility of it.
Afterward, I gathered her carefully against me, her back to my chest, hand possessive over the swell where our child grew. The position let me feel it move, tiny flutters against my palm that felt like butterfly wings. My child. Alive despite everything I’d done to their mother.
Neither of us spoke. Words would shatter this fragile peace, would remind us of all the reasons this moment shouldn’t exist. She could feel my arousal pressed against her, impossible to hide, but I made no move to pursue my own satisfaction. This wasn’t about me. Nothing between us could be about me anymore.
