“Tell me what is frightening you,” he says more firmly. His eyes are intense and focused, like he’s waiting for me to say there’s a xenomorph about to burst out of my chest. The muscles in his jaw tick, and he adds, “Your heart rate has risen. It is too fast.”
I drop the needle-driver and have to grab it as it swings from the thread embedded in his side. “How do you know what my heart’s doing?” I ask. “Do you have super hearing, or x-ray vision, or something?”
“Or something,” he says flatly.
“What the hell does that mean?” I quickly clip the thread and toss the shears to the side, waiting impatiently for an explanation.
His face hardens. “Tell me what you are scared of,” he orders. The thunderous roll of his voice vibrates through me, and my body reacts in the worst way possible, with a shiver and a wave of lustful heat.
Frustrated, I growl, “You can’t just demand things from people and expect them to give you whatever you want!”
A wildly inhuman sound vibrates through his chest—likethe bellow of an alligator—and his eyes narrow with a heated ferocity that feels like a challenge. Like he’s testing me. And the need to hold my ground wins out over everything else.
I lock on to those impossibly green eyes, eyes the color of grass in early spring, and I give no quarter. In seconds, I start to regret my choice. My skin prickles. Breath quickens. And the longer I look, the harder it is to look away. There’s an entire universe in those eyes, a million questions swirling, and a sense that I might already know the answers to them all.
To my surprise, he looks away first. I sink my fingers into the side of the mattress, trying to keep myself rooted to the planet while it feels like I might float away. I don’t know what it is about Vexar that makes me feel this way. It’s this strange feeling of rightness I can’t shake. This heavy pull towards him. A feeling like I want to hold on and never let go. Like I could curl into his arms and sleep forever.
“You are safe with me,” he says, breaking the weighted silence. “I will never let anyone harm you.”
I glance up, confused and about to ask what he means, when he shifts uncomfortably and my gaze catches on his tented pants. A surprised, “Oh,” escapes me, and I force myself to blink and look away. But it’s too late. He already knows I know, and there’s no going back.
With a groan of embarrassment, he reaches down and adjusts himself. Right in front of me. My cheeks burn as I tilt my head back and stare wide-eyed at the ceiling. Salacious thoughts take over my mind, and a liquid heat curls between my thighs, persistent and overwhelming.
“I am sorry,” he rumbles in that deep voice that does everything but cool the persistent desire building in me.
His fingers brush over mine, still clutched to the side of the bed, and the resulting full-body chills have me squeezing my legs together at a reckless speed. The bare skin of my kneesdrags over the unforgiving floor, and a sharp stab of pain burns up my right thigh.
There’s a flash of movement that almost knocks me over, but Vexar catches my shoulder and steadies me. He’s sitting up—damn, he moves fast—expression tense with concern. “What happened?” he asks, his voice almost frantic.
12
HAIL MARY
AMARA
AS IF ONLY just noticing that his hand is on my shoulder, he pulls it back and glances around awkwardly.
“Everything’s fine,” I say, shaking my head and trying to hold back the rush of adrenaline and emotion. I can’t tell if I want to cry or fuck or fight, but the past few minutes have gotten me so wound-up I think I might shatter. “You need to lay back down,” I say, as I go to push his shoulder again, but the second my hand touches his skin, my body buzzes like I touched a fucking light-socket. I pull my arm to my chest, nearly in a panic.
Noticing my reaction, his face softens, and he starts to reach for me again.
“Stop moving!” I shout. “You’re going to tear your stitches!” I’m starting to crack, and I don’t know how to stop it. My heart is pounding so hard my ears hurt. My skin feels like it’s covered in Icy Hot. I’m aroused past the point of reason. And every time I look at Vexar, I just want to curl up in his arms and sob.
“You’re hurt,” he whispers.
I shake my head, “I’m fine,” and push on his shoulder again, trying to ignore the way my body reacts to the contact. But nomatter how hard I push, he doesn’t budge. It’s infuriating. Like pushing on the side of a building, and?—
Wait. I didn’t say anything about my knee. “How do you know I’m?—”
“Let me see,” he interrupts as he swings his legs over the side of the bed, caging me between his muscular thighs.
My breath catches at the decidedly inappropriate position we’re in, and I slowly bring my eyes up to his. From this angle, he looks even more dangerous than before. Dangerous, massive, and impossibly beautiful.
“Let me see,” he whispers, “please.”
I stand, and his eyes rake down my body until they land on my knee, where a superficial cut has started to bleed.
“See? I’m fine,” I say, motioning to my leg. He reaches down and squeezes the sore flesh, making me wince. “Hey,” I say, trying and failing to pull away.
