What kind of hell did she escape to prefer that to wearing his claim? The thought makes dark, seething violence rise inside me.
A mating mark is sacred.
The deepest form of connection possible.
I close my eyes, forcing the rage back down where it belongs. My fingers absently trace the raised edge of the scar beneath her shirt.
The story of her survival.
Her refusal to remain owned.
I understand scars better than most.
Understand their permanence.
Signs someone tried to destroy us but failed.
The shadows lengthen across the floor as evening approaches. How long have we been like this? Three hours? Four? Time loses meaning when I'm perfectly still, every sense attuned to her breathing, her heartbeat, the small movements she makes in sleep.
Best four hours of my life.
Her scent shifts slightly, the medicine working through her system. The cold sweat of fever gives way to something cleaner, healthier. The mark on her shoulder still troubles her though. Her face occasionally tightens with pain, and when it does, I gently increase the pressure of my palm against it.
Each time, she relaxes again.
My heart settles into a steady, quiet rhythm as the omega sleeps against me. Every breath she takes warms a spot on my chest through the thin fabric of my tank. Her weight is nothing—I could carry her for miles without noticing—but right now, she feels like an anchor holding me in place.
Keeping me from drifting away.
Drifting into the darkness that's always waiting.
I don't deserve this moment.
Don't deserve her trust.
But I'll take it anyway.
Store it away to remember forever.
A memory to return to when I'm alone again.
The thought brings a heaviness to my chest, but I push it away. Focus instead on the delicate curve of her cheek. The fan of her lashes against her skin. The soft parting of her lips as she breathes.
She moves against me again, making a small sound in her sleep. Her face nuzzles closer to my neck, seeking warmth.
I have never known such peace.
Then her nose brushes against the edge of my mask, and I go still. Even in sleep, she's restless. She shifts again, pressing closer, her face turning from the crook of my neck and up toward mine.
And then it happens.
Her nose catches the edge of my mask.
Pushes it down my cheek.
Cold air hits scarred skin.
My hand is trapped beneath her.
