"Morning," I whisper, my voice scratchy from sleep.
And everything else we did last night.
Wraith doesn't speak, of course, but his massive hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from my face. His rough fingertips trail down my cheek in a feather-light caress.
I notice a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, a subtle tension in his shoulders. He's worried, I realize. Worried I might regret what happened between us. Worried I might pull away now that the intensity of my heat has passed.
He couldn't be more wrong.
I snuggle closer, pressing my face against his chest. His heart thumps steadily under my ear, quickening slightly at my movement. The sound makes me smile against his warm skin. I trace lazy patterns across his scarred chest, feeling each ridge and valley beneath my fingertips. His breathing deepens, and he adjusts our position, tucking me more securely against him.
"I'm glad you stayed," I murmur.
His arm tightens around me in response, large hand splayed across my lower back. He shifts slightly to accommodate my smaller frame, one hand moving to stroke my hair in long, soothing motions.
I think last night was the first time he was ever with an omega. Maybe anyone. But he clearly knows how to take care of one. Waking up in his arms like this, being caressed and stroked and snuggled and cherished, is nothing short of heavenly. Especially in the blissful post-heat haze.
Nothing about this feels like a mistake. Not the way my body curls perfectly against his massive frame, not the way his scent wraps around me like a shield against the outside world.
When I tilt my head up to look at him again, that tiny crinkle at the corner of his eyes has deepened. Yet there's still something sad in his gaze. His thumb traces the curve of my shoulder, circling the place where my scar lies hidden beneath his borrowed shirt.
"You're worrying," I whisper, breaking the comfortable silence between us. "I can feel it."
His chest rises sharply as he takes a deep breath. Those piercing blue eyes search mine, looking for... doubt? Regret? Fear? He won't find any of those things.
"I don't regret anything now that my heat is over, if that's what you're worrying about," I tell him, answering the question he clearly isn't about to ask. "Not with you."
His eyes widen slightly, surprise flickering across the visible part of his face. Then he shakes his head, disbelief evident in his expression.
"Listen." I place my hand on his chest, feeling his heart speed up again beneath my palm. His hand moves to cover mine, engulfing it completely. "I like you, Wraith. And not just because I was in heat, and not just because we're scent matches. I'm sure about that. But..." I pause, knowing I need to be honest with him. "I also have a lot of other things to think about. This is all happening so fast. Before you brought me here, I was hiding in abandoned maintenance tunnels. And now I'm here in your pack house, finding out I'm scent-matched not only to you, but to an entire pack of alphas I don't know."
His expression grows more serious, but he nods, understanding.
"And I'm still..." I struggle to find the right words. "Dealingwith everything that's happened. The nightmares. The fear. The way I still flinch sometimes when someone moves too quickly." I offer a small, wry smile. "I'm a work in progress, is what I'm saying."
Wraith's free hand comes up to touch my face, his thumb brushing gently across my cheekbone. His eyes say what his voice can't.Take your time. I understand. I'm not going anywhere.
"Thank you," I whisper, leaning into his touch.
We stay like that for a while, wrapped in each other's warmth, touching softly and breathing together. His chest rises and falls in perfect harmony with mine. He shifts occasionally to stroke my hair or trace the curve of my spine, each touch reverent and unhurried.
The morning light grows stronger, slipping through the blinds to cast stripes of gold across the bed. When I finally shift to stretch, Wraith props himself up on one elbow and tilts his head, regarding me with a question in his eyes before signing with his free hand.
H-U-N-G-R-Y?
Now that he mentions it, I am starving. After everything yesterday—the shot, the fever, and our night together—my stomach feels hollow.
"Yes," I admit. "Very."
He sits up fully, the sheet falling to pool around his waist. Even in the relative darkness, the scars across his chest and shoulders are visible. Burns, cuts, surgical marks—his bodytells a story of unimaginable pain. Yet despite all that, there's something almost adorable about him this morning. His dark hair is mussed from sleep and his movements are slower and less guarded than usual. Like a giant groggy cat.
He signs something else, more complex this time.
"Sorry," I say. "I didn't catch that."
Wraith reaches for his phone on the nightstand and types quickly before showing me the screen.
Not much food. Protein bars, fruit. Can make something downstairs or get takeout.
