He’s lucky I’m hoarse, or I’d be raising the fucking roof. Things being what they are, most of what I say comes out in soft hysterical tones, and the rest in screechy consonants that make my eyes water.
He works his gaze slowly up my face until our eyes meet. They bounce off each other like oil and water, but Branson keeps his eyes fixed on mine until I relent and look at him. “I’m so sorry, Lucy.”
The room spins, and so do I. In the mirror, my reflection waves its arms around and my face morphs into something I normally wouldn’t let other people see.
“You’re sorry?” I scream silently. Branson looks at me soberly and nods. I splutter, clutching my chest as I choke on shock and disbelief that rapidly turns to fury. “You mated mefor life, and you’re sorry?Sorry?”
As I say it, the gravity of the situation begins to sink in. Panic makes my blood run cold and my ears uncomfortably hot. A thick fog swells and puts so much pressure on the backs of my eyes that I feel dizzy.
Holy shit.Branson bit me. He mated with me. He sank his teeth into my neck, into my scent gland, during a heat wave. He injected his alpha venom into my omega bloodstream.
He altered my DNA and bonded us for life.
For life! For fucking life.
No.
This can’t be happening. This cannot be happening.
It’s impossible.
Think. Think, think, think. There has to be something you can do.
“I said ‘I’msosorry,’” says Branson, attempting an apologetic smile.
I glare at him open-mouthed. My brain cuts in and out, thoughts jumbling, as what has happened slams into me.
“Oh, this is bad,” I say to my reflection. “This is very bad. No. No, this can’t be happening.” I swipe at my neckfuriously, trying to wipe the mark off. “Wash! Yes, that’s it. We need to—”
“Lucy,” says Branson, not moving.
“We need to wash it off! Get disinfectant. Get petrol and a lighter. Get whatever the fuck you can think of to get this thing off me before it takes.Hurry!”
“Lucy,” he says again. This time, his voice is low and rumbles not only through the air, but through me as well. It floods my mind and my bones, turning them to jelly, rendering me mute and immobile. “It’s too late.”
He takes two steps toward me and pulls the collar of his flannel shirt away from his body. He pauses, eyes hard and soft, and arches his neck deeply. If it weren’t for the situation being what it is, if it weren’t a complete shit show, and if I weren’t more hysterical than I can ever recall being, it would be quite something to see him like that. It would be strange and arresting to see Branson, the most alpha of alphas, willingly exposing his throat to me, a man half his size, half his stature, half his strength. If things were different, it might even be beautiful to see Branson showing himself to me at his most defenseless.
It’s such an unexpected sight that it jumbles my thoughts. I don’t move for several seconds, until the situation at hand comes roaring back to my consciousness.
I notice Branson has raised his hand, so I follow the line of his finger as it points above his clavicle. I notice a tiny indentation near the base of his throat. An irregular circular dip in his skin that emulates the scar on my neck. A mirror image of the mark he bit into me, sunken into his flesh.
A dip where mine is raised.
A pale, silvery dent, where mine is hot, angry, and swollen.
The mystical twin of the mark on my neck.
“It’s taken,” says Branson, voice still low.
“I think I need to lie down.”
“Do you want me to carry you?”
I hold up my hand weakly, raising my nose high in the air and sniffing disdainfully. “Kindly don’t touch me.”
I totter to the living room, amazed I’m able to stay on my feet, and slither onto the sofa as soon as I get to it. I melt into the seat, flat on my back, as the shock of what’s happened robs me of the last of my strength.
Branson props a pillow under my neck, and when I don’t protest, he props another under my knees.
