By the time he finally stops licking me, I’m incoherent, and thank God for that. For if not, he’d surely be able to piece together the inexplicable things I’m trying to say.
Maybe you’re right. Maybe it won’t be that bad.
20
Lucien
It’sbeenalong-assday. Things between Branson and me teeter precariously between being completely comfortable and very, very uncomfortable. It seems that when I’m clothed, the fact that he marked me when I explicitly asked him not to is a bloody big deal. It’s a life-changing commitment that’s been forced on me. When I’m not actively being upset about that, I’m upset about the fact that I can’t seem to stand being more than a couple of yards away from him. And when that isn’t bothering me, it takes all my concentration not to tell him that my mark still hurts in the hope that he’ll offer to heal it with his venom again.
The only thing stopping me—other than my pride, which I admit is a little shaky right now—is the fact that I know the fucking bond will glow white if I do because, much as I hate to admit it, Branson’s ministrations do seem to have healed me.
My mark feels perfectly fine. It doesn’t hurt at all. It doesn’t sting. It doesn’t burn. It just feels like a warm, sexy reminder that Branson wanted me so much he sank his teeth into me and made me his forever.
It’s the worst.
I swear to God that I cannot catch a break on this goddamn getaway.
“Would you like me to sleep on the floor again?” Branson asks when we’re ready for bed.
He’s wearing flannel pajama pants and no shirt, and that’s seriously impacting my ability to think.
On the one hand, I’m absolutely positive he deserves a lot more than one night on the floor for what he’s done to me. There’s the matter of our entire future—setting precedents and all that to consider. Like it or not, I’m in this relationship for the rest of my life now, and I think it’s important that I start as I mean to continue.
He shouldn’t have bitten me. It’s a very serious violation of my consent, and I need to make sure he knows that, so he doesn’t ever think about doing anything like this again. I need to stand firm. I can’t just roll over and let him dowhatever he likes because he makes me come my face off with nothing more than a flick of his tongue.
“Yes, I would,” I say, tilting my head back a lot, so I’m almost able to look down my nose at him.
He puts a towel on the floor, spreading it out carefully, and lies down on it without a word of complaint. It’s a little upsetting. What’s even more upsetting is that I can’t help noticing that I gravitate to the very edge of the bed to be as close to him as possible.
I turn off the light, but don’t fall asleep. I can’t. I toss and turn, getting angrier and angrier. Eventually, I turn the light back on and sit up. Branson pushes himself up on one elbow, eyes bleary enough to lead me to believe he had no trouble falling asleep.
“Are you okay, Lucy? Do you need anything?”
“I’m upset,” I tell him, tight-lipped. “And I think it’s best for me to let you know that. I don’t think it’s a good idea to start this”—I wave between us dismissively—“whatever you’d call it…with me hiding my feelings from you.”
Branson sits up properly, turning to face me and crossing his legs. “I don’t ever want you to hide your feelings from me,” he says sincerely.
“Well.” I sniff. “Then you should know I’m very disappointed in you for biting me. I specifically asked you notto. I wasn’t unclear at all. I never wanted to be mated.” The bond flickers, pale and almost pure white. I quickly amend. “I mean, not since I was little. I used to daydream about it when I was younger, but who doesn’t? I haven’t so much as thought about it since I was a teen. I like being on my own, and I like working, and I’m sure as hell not going to give that up because we’re mated.”
Several things happen to Branson’s face as I speak. He blinks rapidly and looks down. His lips press together and his chin quivers slightly.
When he looks up at me, the striations in his eyes flicker dimly and his lashes are damp.
I’m stunned silent.
It’s not that alphas don’t ever cry. They’re human beings with a full range of emotions. Of course they cry. It’s just that I’ve never seen one cry in real life, and I’ve certainly never been the reason for it happening.
The bond throbs deeply, emitting soft mournful midnight pastels that make it hard for me breathe.
“I’m sorry, Lucy.” Branson looks up at me, and his eyes well and spill over. “I’ve let you down. I knew better, and I should have done better. I should have been better.” He reaches out as though he means to touch me, but he changes his mind and withdraws his hand, dropping it back into his lap. “I’m going to make it up to you, I swear. Idon’t care how long it takes, or what I have to do. I’ll make this right.”
I hate whatever is happening with the bond. It’s horrible. A terrible wavering ache. It’s the pain of Branson being upset, and it’s unbearable.
“Get some sleep, alpha,” I suggest, voice tight.
He lies down with a soft sigh. I move this way and that under the covers, though I try not to. Why the fuck is it bothering me so much that he’s unhappy? I’m in the right here. He was wrong to bite me, and I have every right to tell him so.
Fuck this fucking bond.
