"Hey." He tilts my chin up. "Look at me."
I do.
His eyes are softer than I expect.
"I've been selfish. I told myself I was helping Marie adjust, and I was, but I also liked being the hero in a story where I wasn't the one who fucked up. So I camped in her nest and told myself you were fine because you weren't screaming for me."
"I thought if I screamed, I'd get in trouble."
His face crumples for a heartbeat. "Yeah. That's the part I forgot. That silence doesn't equal 'I'm okay' for you. Sometimes it means 'I've given up yelling.'"
I close my eyes, a fresh ache blooming.
"Vee. You didn't do anything wrong asking me to wash off another omega's scent before crawling into your bed. You're allowed to want something just yours."
The relief that hits me is ridiculous.
I let out a long breath and lean into him. "Okay. Thank you."
"What are pack for. Besides stealing each other's socks."
I snort, tension easing. "So youarethe sock thief."
"Allegedly."
We talk for a while after that. About nothing and everything. Hospital stories. The neighbors' weird blocked scents. Finn's obsession with my basil. The fact that I've started gardening like my life depends on it.
When he finally kisses me, it feels like a return to something I'd gotten used to missing.
His mouth is familiar—warm, insistent, a little clumsy when he's feeling too much. My body responds like it's been waiting for this exact combination of weight and scent and heat.
I climb into his lap without thinking, fingers in his damp hair, knees bracketing his hips.
For a moment, there is no Marie.
No ban. No hardwood floor. No neighbors with healthy dynamics.
Just Drake, my ridiculous, golden-bright alpha, kissing me like he hasn't been allowed to touch me in months.
Maybe he hasn't.
He mutters something into my mouth about how much he's missed this. I make a noise that could mean anything and everything.
He drags his mouth down my jaw and I tip my head for him without thinking, offering my throat.
"Tell me what you want," he murmurs against my pulse, hands splayed wide on my hips like he's trying to relearn the map of me.
"Teeth. Leave me something to look at. Not a claim. Just—remind me that I'm yours."
A low sound rolls out of him, pleased and possessive. "I can do that."
He does.
Careful at first, testing pressure, then firmer when my breath stutters. His mouth seals over where my heartbeat flutters; tongue, a slow lap, then the precise press of teeth. The sting is bright and electric. I make a noise he swallows, one hand coming up to cradle the back of my head.
"Here," he says, and marks the other side to match.
Heat floods through me, instinct singing, that simple satisfaction ofmine mine minewritten in little half-moons.
