Stefano’s arms came around me automatically, one hand splaying across my lower back while the other cupped the back of my head. His chest rumbled with barely suppressed laughter, but his hold was steady, secure.
“Probably just pond weeds or a stick stirred up by the dogs,” he murmured, his mouth close to my ear. “Nothing dangerous, little wildcat.”
Pond weeds. Right. I just koala-hugged a naked alpha because of some aquatic vegetation. My dignity wasn’t just dead—it had been cremated and scattered to the winds.
The position put us in intimate contact from chest to hip, my legs wrapped around his waist, his hands on my skin. I could feel every inch of him—the hard planes of his chest, the ridged muscle of his abs, and something else pressing against my inner thigh that definitely wasn’t harmless.
“Let me go,” I whispered, though I made no move to unwrap myself from around him. My body seemed to have developed a mind of its own, content to stay pressed against all that warm, solid muscle.
“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that made my toes curl. “You seemed pretty convinced there were water monsters a moment ago. Shouldn’t I protect you from the terrifying fish?”
Like the most dangerous thing in this pond isn’t the alpha I’m currently wrapped around like a wet octopus.
“Still just fish.” Marco’s amused voice broke the moment, reminding me that we had an audience for this latest display of my complete lack of self-preservation. “Though I have to say, your problem-solving technique is… creative.”
I jerked back from Stefano, or tried to, but his arms remained locked around me. “Let me go,” I hissed, mortification burning through me as I realized Marco and Matteo had witnessed the entire pathetic display. “This is embarrassing enough without commentary from the peanut gallery.”
“I don’t think so,” Stefano said, his voice carrying that note of possession that made my stomach flutter despite my best efforts. “I rather like having you exactly where you are.”
“The water weeds are gone,” Marco pointed out with obvious amusement. “Whatever aquatic terror you were fleeing has been thoroughly vanquished by your dramatic rescue response.”
“It’s not funny,” I protested, though my voice lacked conviction when I was still wrapped around Stefano like a desperate octopus. “Something slimy touched me! It could have been anything!”
“It could have been,” Stefano agreed, his hands sliding down to cup my ass possessively. “But now you’re safe. Protected. Exactly where you belong.”
Where I belong. Wrapped around him like some needy omega who can’t handle a little pond vegetation without having a complete meltdown.
Apollo chose that moment to swim over and investigate our embrace, his wet nose bumping against my shoulder with obvious curiosity.
“Even the dog thinks this is ridiculous,” I muttered, finally managing to unwrap my arms from around Stefano’s neck, though my legs seemed reluctant to follow suit. “Can I please maintain some dignity and finish washing myself like a normal person?”
“After that display of aquatic panic?” Marco asked with a grin. “I don’t think normal applies to you anymore, little wildcat.”
Stefano finally loosened his hold enough for me to slide down his body, though he kept his hands on my waist to steady me. The movement made me acutely aware of every inch of contact, from my chest sliding against his to the way his hands spanned my waist with casual possession.
“Better?” he asked, though his grip suggested he was ready to catch me again if needed.
“Marginally,” I admitted grudgingly, trying to ignore how my body missed the contact immediately. “Though my dignity may never recover from the fish incident.”
The bathing concluded without further fish-related panic attacks, though I remained hyperaware of every shadow in the water. By the time Stefano lifted me from the pond and wrapped me in a towel, I was exhausted from the combination of physical weakness and emotional overwhelm.
Back at camp, Marco had breakfast waiting—eggs, bacon, and what appeared to be fresh bread that somehow smelled like heaven despite being cooked over a camp stove.
“Here,” Stefano said, settling me in one of the camping chairs before taking the seat directly across from me. But when Marco approached with a loaded plate, Stefano simply pulled me into his lap instead.
“I can sit in my own chair,” I protested weakly, though I had to admit his solid warmth felt good against my still-shaky body.
“You’re trembling,” he pointed out, one arm wrapping around my waist to steady me.
He’s not wrong. My coordination is still shot, and sitting on my own feels like more effort than I want to expend. But admitting that feels like another surrender.
“Here,” Marco said, settling beside us with the plate. When he held out a forkful of eggs, I reached for the utensil automatically.
“I can feed myself,” I insisted, but the moment my fingers closed around the fork, it became obvious that was optimistic at best. My hand shook badly enough that I nearly flung the eggs across the campsite.
“Clearly,” Stefano said dryly, gently taking the fork from my unsteady grip. “Open.”
Like I’m some invalid who needs spoon-feeding. Though considering I can barely hold a fork without committing accidental food violence, maybe that’s not entirely inaccurate.
