Page 15 of Elas (Mate’s Mark #2)

August

A lone cicada screams outside the window, and part of me wants to run out into the night and screech along with it. I sigh as I sit up and punch the sides of my pillow.

Again .

As nice as it was to let loose last night, I’ve been hungover and exhausted all day, despite sleeping until noon. Elas came back into his barracks with his usual smile, but something about it was off. Forced and fake, and not reaching his eyes like it usually does.

He denied anything was wrong, but ever since he got back, he’s been avoiding me.

I already know I’m an imposition in his space, and this new dismissive attitude has made me hyper aware of that fact.

He wants to be alone, and that’s no longer an option.

I gave him as much privacy as possible, but it didn’t seem like enough.

Most of the day, I stayed curled up in an armchair, chugging water and reading a random old sci-fi novel that was sitting on the shelf.

My thoughts kept drifting from the pages, though, wondering why I’m at this end of his cold shoulder.

The fuzzy remnants of last night’s conversation swirl in my head along with the lingering punch of the liquor.

Gods, I can still smell it. The alcohol was stronger than I’m used to, and it had been ages since I’d had that much to drink.

A faint memory tickles my brain—one where I was flirty and teasing.

Where I asked Elas to touch me. Nausea swirls in my stomach as I consider the very real possibility that I crossed a line.

Elas is my only lifeline here. He’s the one who pulled me from that prison, and the one person I trust without reservation.

The thought that I might’ve unintentionally driven a wedge between us has made me restless to fix whatever damage I’ve done.

Midafternoon, I put together a peanut butter sandwich for myself and made him one as well.

It was a peace offering, even though I’m not positive what I’ve done to upset him.

When I knocked on his bedroom door and delivered it to him, I couldn’t find the courage to ask.

He simply smiled and thanked me, but said nothing else.

The shower pelted a few hours earlier than usual, and he’s been locked in his bedroom ever since. Worry keeps me awake—stress about my precarious situation mixes with the concern that I’ve already overstayed my welcome. This is the first place that has felt like home in forever.

Growing up, I lived in several rebel camps. My mother was a medic as well, and we moved where we were needed. After my parents were gone, I continued the trend, staying at a camp for a few years before the itch to move would return.

No matter where I went, I was accepted with open arms, but it always felt temporary. Like I knew that I didn’t need to get too comfortable, because there would come a time when I’d pack up and leave again. The camps were never permanent, and they certainly were never home.

But now, curled up on the couch of someone I barely even know… someone I’ve been told my entire life to hate…

My restless soul has settled.

And I’m acutely aware it could be ripped away at any time.

Anxiety brings me to sit again, tired of lying and staring at the ceiling. The woven rug is warm under my feet as I stand, pouring myself yet another glass of water to rehydrate my cottonmouth.

A noise comes from Elas’s room, and I stumble into the kitchen table as I turn my head towards the dark hallway that leads to his door. I freeze, my ears straining against the silence, but there’s nothing besides that same damn cicada shouting its displeasure.

I fill my cup with water and chug half of it when I hear it again. The low rumble of Elas’s voice is muffled, but it’s undeniably him. It’s impossible to tell if he’s having a conversation or if it’s something more intimate.

My stomach bottoms out at the thought of someone in bed with him.

I’ve not left the apartment today, barely even scraped myself off the couch, but I took a shower earlier.

Someone could’ve snuck in while I was preoccupied.

Hell, for all I know, there could be other ways to get into his room.

Unlocked windows and secret signals for a lover he’s kept hidden.

A surge of something dangerously close to jealousy heats my insides, picturing his giant body with some anonymous face. I sit my glass on the table with a quiet clink as I take a few cautious steps closer.

“No, please,” he mutters, and I hear the faint swishing of fabric as I tiptoe to the door and press my ear against it. “Not again… not again, not again, not again …” A low, ragged whine tears from his throat, so similar to the cry of a wounded animal that it cracks my heart right in half.

“Elas?” I call, tapping my knuckles on the door. “Elas, are you alright?”

“No,” he cries, louder this time, but I can tell the answer isn’t meant for me. It’s shouted at whatever demons are plaguing his mind. “Let me out. No… no…”

My pulse pounds as I twist the knob and step inside his room.

A silvery beam slices through the window, shining a spotlight on his giant frame thrashing in his bed.

Sheets tangle around his body, coiling and compressing like a serpent.

“Elas,” I call again, raising my voice to reach him over his constant stream of pleading. “Elas, wake up. You’re having a dream.”

He shakes his head, arguing against my words that don’t quite break through his panic.

His brows pinch as though he’s in pain and his eyes are screwed shut.

“Please, no . No, no… please… let me out,” he whimpers.

“Not again… I can’t do this again!” The desperation in his voice severs the last of my hesitation.

“Elas!” My knee drops onto his mattress, and his eyes snap open, crazed in the moonlight.

His hand flies out and slams against my chest, directly above my heart, and static courses through my skin where we touch.

He balls a fist around my shirt and scrambles to his knees, chest heaving as he kneels in the middle of his bed.

“Elas, it was a dream. Just a dream…. you’re awake now. You’re safe.”

“August?” he rasps, his voice hoarse as he fists my shirt tighter and pulls me closer.

“Yeah, El, it’s me. It’s August. You were dreaming.”

“Light,” he pleads, shaking so fiercely it vibrates the entire bed. “Please, light.”

“Of course.” My fingers tighten around his wrist, urging him to let go so I can help pull him from the suffocating darkness. My thumb glides across his knuckles, comforting him until he slackens his grip.

“Give me two seconds,” I whisper. “Two seconds, and I’ll be right back by your side.” He squeezes his eyes shut and nods as I run to flip on the bathroom light. It’s not so bright that it will hurt, but it shines through his doorframe and illuminates him like a work of art in some long-lost museum.

“Is that…” I trail off, my chest full of lead as I stare at him. He’s beautifully tragic. Completely naked, his powerful body kneels on the center of his bed while his head sags into his palms. Long, dark braids hang in front of his shoulders, his face hidden.

Light bounces off every plane of his frame as he trembles, shivering as though he’s freezing alive in the balmy, humid night.

Scars decorate his skin, slices and tears and unstitched injuries that cover his chest and thighs.

I forbid my eyes from wandering further as I take in the broken warrior before me.

The need to comfort him, to chase away whatever haunts his mind, is so strong that I don’t stop myself from closing the distance. My knee lands on the bed again, inching closer.

“Elas, I don’t know how to help you, but I’m right here.”

“I’m fine,” he whispers, but he’s still shaking.

“You don’t have to pretend with me.” I keep my voice low as I tentatively grip his forearm. He stills at my touch, like every trembling muscle in his body is calmed as my fingers flex against him. “You don’t need to convince me nothing’s wrong, alright? You don’t owe me any explanations.”

He forces a rough swallow that clicks in his throat, and he nods. It’s barely there, a single dip of his head, but it eases the heaviness on my chest by a fraction. “What do you need from me? Do you want me to give you some privacy?”

“No,” he says in a rush, his voice frantic again as his panicked eyes find mine.

Heavy arms wrap around my torso and tug me against him, and I immediately hug him back.

The rest of that anxiety vanishes as the hard angles of his body meet the softer edges of mine.

His woody, natural smell is heightened by sweat, an undertone of leather still on his skin, and I breathe him in as I tuck my face into his neck. “Don’t go,” he whispers. “Please?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper back, like someone might hear if we speak too loudly.

Like this is forbidden, somehow, despite how natural it is to comfort him.

My hand moves of its own accord, cradling the back of his head.

He nuzzles into the touch, his erratic breaths beginning to calm. “I’ll stay as long as you need me to. ”

The minutes tick by and we remain like this, huddled together and kneeling. He never releases me as I pet his hair, and eventually his pulse slows to normal as his breathing becomes steady.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, embarrassment reducing his words to barely-there mutters as he pulls away.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

“I… I didn’t mean to wake you. I have… nightmares sometimes.

Flashbacks,” he corrects, his gaze distant, and I can’t help it as my eyes trail over the patchwork of scars on his skin.

Elas is nearly seven feet tall, his chest is broad, and his shoulders are impossibly wide.

Some of the gnarled injuries cross the entire expanse of his torso, pale and raised in their jagged stripes.

I’ve always noticed the one on his lip. It’s impossible not to see with the way his tusk pushes the skin out, highlighting the lighter blue scar that cuts down his chin. But the ones on his body are different.

More severe.

More painful .

“Do you want to talk about it?” The offer is gentle, and I expect him to shut me down.

I’ve spent enough time around injured tough guys to understand that life has conditioned them to be hard.

They conquer their demons in silence and alone, and don’t discuss what bothers them.

Elas is solid power and pride, and while the rejection feels inevitable, I need him to hear my sincerity.

“Oh, uh,” he clears his throat before he swallows again, the sound infinitely more put together than it was just moments ago. “I’m naked. ”

“Trust me, I’m aware,” I deadpan, and he snorts a quiet laugh that releases some of the bound tension in the room.

My eyes drop downward of their own accord, and my heart leaps straight into my throat at the size of his cock hanging between his legs.

My limited relationship history means I’m no expert, but this one is particularly intimidating.

It flexes under my watch, and Elas clears his throat again.

“Sorry,” I rush to say as my neck burns, my eyes snapping back up to his. “I didn’t mean to… stare.”

“Let me just, uh, take care of that.” There’s a playfulness in his expression as he bites at his lip.

“Yeah, okay,” I squeak, my voice a full octave higher than normal as his grin widens.

He climbs from the bed and I catch a glimpse of an enormous set of balls hanging underneath his half-hard cock.

My skin is already flaming as he turns his back to me, leaving me to stare at his toned ass.

His body is a masterpiece, thick muscles and corded tendons under battle hardened skin.

When he bends over to grab a pair of shorts, that heavy sac hangs between his thighs, and I curse under my breath at my body’s reaction.

It’s the last place my mind should be, given the circumstances that brought me in here.

He’s half awake, the grips of the nightmare still obvious in his tight posture, and I have no business ogling him like a piece of meat.

The reminder allows me to shake myself from this insistent attraction that’s bubbling in my gut, and by the time Elas returns to bed, I’m calm again.

“Do you want me to—”

“Do you think you could—”

Our words crash together before stopping dead, our mouths snapping shut at the same moment. Elas huffs another quiet laugh. “Go ahead,” I offer with a soft smile.

His gaze drifts away, focusing on the glow from the bathroom, and the light bounces off those endlessly black eyes. I reach out and wrap my fingers around his forearm, and his muscles bunch and kick under my fingertips. He meets my eyes for a brief moment before his gaze drops to where we touch.

“Would you stay with me tonight?” The words are barely even a whisper, but they trigger a rush of deep affection.

“Of course I will,” I say with no hesitation, and he nods, still staring at my hand on his arm.

“Bed’s far more comfortable than the couch, anyway.

Don’t act like it’s a chore.” When he meets my eyes this time, they’re lighter and crinkled with his half-hearted grin.

I don’t mention the light in the bathroom, just nod my head towards the pillows.

Wordlessly, we settle under the sheets, with Elas on his back while I lie on my side facing him. Neither of us speaks as I close my eyes and attempt to sleep. The pace of his breathing tells me he’s wide awake, too—in need of comfort that he won’t ask for.

My hand snakes underneath the covers and finds his, my fingers wrapping around his palm. He startles at the touch, then squeezes my hand as his tense body relaxes.

We lie like that a while longer, his thumb occasionally drifting over my knuckles. But eventually, our breathing evens out, and soon enough, sleep claims us both.