Page 2

Billie

I WAKE UP to the feeling of my skin burning like thousands of red-hot needles are pricking into my flesh, along with an alarmingly urgent need to pee, intensified by the boa constrictor-like grip Jax has me in. I try to wiggle out of his hold and end up hissing out in pain from rubbing my raw skin against his. “Hey, Jax,” I whisper while poking his arm.

He groans and squeezes me tighter, only increasing the pain of both my skin and my overfilled bladder. I will not pee the bed. I will not pee the bed. I reach my hand down and pinch his leg.

“Ouch, fuck” he sleepily wails, releasing me.

“Sorry, gotta pee” I reply while quickly making my escape. Rocking up onto my feet, I bounce my way off the bed before doing the ever-so-cool, totally chic, zippered-thighs shuffle to the bathroom.

The warm water suds up the soap on my hands, and I exhale a long breath of relief, feeling lighter and less like an inflated balloon about to burst—a water balloon at that—only to intake a sharp gasp of air when I glance up at my reflection in the mirrors above the double sinks. One side of my face is still scratched up and swollen from Amber’s claws. But it’s the rest of my body, specifically every inch of my skin from my jawline down that has my breath catching in shock. Jax’s love bites not only look raw but are starting to bruise, to the point that even the small spaces of skin between his teeth marks are now a mottled purplish pink.

“Fuck,” I groan, grabbing the hand towel and averting my gaze from what I don’t want to see, because somehow seeing the damage only makes it hurt more. Damn , who knew Def Leppard was so profound when it came to romance, ’cause these love bites might not be bleeding, but they sure as fuck hurt. But then another damn , because it felt hella good at the time. Tossing the towel on the vanity, I walk out of the bathroom, making sure to keep my eyes on the door and away from the mirrors. Shutting the lights off with a slap of urgency, I open the door and step into my bedroom.

Creeping over to my bed and no longer distracted by my bodily needs, I notice that not only has Jax found his next victim for his constrictor hold of love, Ethan, but Xander is not with us. The room is far too dark for it to be well and truly morning. I peer at the alarm clock on top of the white-washed bureau and note that it’s not even 4:00 a.m. We didn’t fall asleep until well after midnight, so Xander should still be in here. With a huff of equal parts annoyed and distraught, I grab a T-shirt from my drawer and head out of the room in search of my alpha.

Slinking across the catwalk, I can see a trapezoidal-shaped shaft of light from the dining room, breaching the darkness of the great room. On nimble feet I continue my way down the stairs and through the hallway below. Keeping close to the wall, I round the corner into the great room and stealthily peek into the dining room from the safety of the shadows.

There at the head of the table, seated on one of the white linen tufted chairs, is Xander, wearing only his black boxer briefs. His legs are hooked under the chair, one bouncing on the balls of his foot, while his naked upper body is bent over the table, his fingers flipping through a large bound stack of papers that remind me of legal documents or something, with the dark-brown cloth-like binding and the heavy light-brown posterboard front and back covers. With a pen in the other hand and some tabs and a notepad next to him, he seems to be utterly intent on the material he’s reading over.

Keeping his head down, he gruffly murmurs, “What are you doing up, Wilhelmina?”

The shock of his voice is like the physical blow from a sonic boom in the otherwise silent room making me jump back. Putting a hand over my racing heart, I yelp “Fucking A, Xander! You scared the shit out of me.”

“I’m not the one who’s sneaking up on people,” he drily chuckles. With his head still bent over, he side-eyes me from behind several strands of dark hair that have fallen forward.

Placing my hands on my hips, I let out a huff of indignation. “No, you’re just the creeper hanging out in the dark, before dawn.”

Dropping his pen, he leans back into his chair and angles himself to face me, his eyes roving over my body hidden in the dark just outside the shaft of light. Folding his arms over his chest, he bites his lower lip and arches a brow. “You’re calling me the creeper, while you’re the one standing there in the shadows?”

Rolling my eyes, I lean my side against the wall and protest, “I wasn’t creeping, Xander. I got up, and when I saw you weren’t in the bed”—I roll a nonchalant shoulder— “I came looking.”

His brows dip down. “What woke you up so early?”

Wrapping my arms around my waist, my upper body engulfed in the Iron Maiden T-shirt that hangs almost to my knees, I mutter, “Just uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable?” he repeats in a questioning voice. Sitting up taller, he reaches his hand out to me.

As if his outstretched hand is both an offering and a demand, one my body can’t deny, I float over with my arm stretching toward him, my fingers tingling with the desire to be held in his grasp. The slip of my fingers over his palm sends warm currents of energy up my arm. Standing in front of him and no longer hidden, I sigh. “Yeah, uncomfortable.”

He pulls me into the space between his legs and rests my hands on his bare shoulders, before dropping his hands drop to my thighs, and pushing the material of my T-shirt up. The muscles of his jaw clench tighter and tighter the more material he lifts, the more of my flesh he sees. I let my arms rise for my shirt to be dislodged before resting my hands back down on his strong shoulders once more. Tossing my T-shirt on the floor, his hands begin to roam over my bite-covered body, his eyes glowing, following his hands with intent focus. They come to perch on the sides of my hips. Hanging his head low, he rests his forehead on my stomach and painfully groans, “Wilhelmina.”

“Yes, Alexander?” I murmur, slipping my hands up the sides of his neck to tunnel my fingers through his silky hair.

The muscles of his shoulders and upper back press against his flesh from his large shuddering inhale. “Why?” he questions, his voice quiet and tired, like it’s a question he’s asked a thousand times and one he never expects an answer to. “Why does it seem like your body takes on physical trauma when you help our pack-mates process emotional trauma?”

Continuing to run my fingers through his hair, the feeling so comforting I wonder if anyone has ever thought of making a wig just for this purpose, for those that don’t have a willing lock donor, I let my short nails drag over his scalp, watching goosebumps form on the back of his neck. I softly smile and expel a long breath. “What are you doing up so early, Xander?”

He tilts his head back and rests his chin on my belly. His tired eyes search my face while his hands run the length of my outer thighs and over my bare ass. We stay there for several minutes, staring at each other: my hands in his hair, his hands on my legs, neither of us answering the other’s question.

I move forward, pushing Xander back in his chair and placing my feet on the outside of the seat so I can lower myself to straddling. I let my legs hang to the sides, my feet not touching the floor while Xander’s hands on my ass help pull me closer. His eyes continue to glow, and the bite-raw skin of my backside begins to heat, my flesh softening with the feeling of his healing energy entering me, flowing down my legs like the warm waters from a hot spring.

A moan tumbles from my throat and gusts through my lips while my head slants forward to rest on his shoulder, my arms loosely draping around him. His cheek rubs against mine, and his lips place soft kisses along the length of my neck. My chest hums in satisfaction and appreciation.

The position is reminiscent of the first time I ever shifted, when Little Fox and I sat in the nook of Xander’s crossed legs and he helped us shift back to my human form. I’d only known him for a few weeks, but Little Fox trusted him, his wolf. I did too, having an innate feeling that he’d never hurt me, that he’d do whatever he could to protect me. Protect us.

The feelings of love and appreciation bloom from the center of my being, and it’s as if soft flower petals are fluttering through me, making my flesh tingle and body tremble. I snuggle in deeper, kissing his neck and shoulder while his palms move up my torso, spreading his healing magic and the warmth of the memory throughout my body. His hands skate up my back over the raw skin, and I feel the slight pressure of his palm on me, a soft urging. I melt under his request, bringing the flesh of our chests flush. Feeling his skin, sitting in his lap, being held in his embrace, I exhale a breath of beautiful submission, succumbing to his stable strength and his healing energy.