There’s something inside me needing the reassurance of holding her tight. I know it's the manifestation of my shock at her being taken. It’s as if I have residual grief on a cellular level that needs calming, despite having her back in my arms, where she belongs.
I’m pretty sure it’s going to take me a few years to feel whole again.
“I’m okay,” Layne says, answering Dante. “I just need this. Exactly this.”
Layne twists around, so she can look at each of us before her focus returns to me. The way she looks at me makes it seem as though we’re the last people on earth. Her focus is entirely onme as her hand cups the side of my face. She stretches up and demands, in her own subtle way, for me to kiss her.
“Jesus, Layne…” My pleas get cut off when her lips brush over mine.
She sighs against them.
Her eyes shut as a tremor racks over her from the inside out. She makes a small groan of pain, but when Layne pulls back a couple of inches, her eyes are clearer, and color is returning to her cheeks. Her hand makes it nearly impossible for me to look away. I’m sure my eyes are full of guilt, love, and relief.
I know she wants the same thing Dante did, a verbal confirmation I’m okay. And now that she’s back with us, I am. “Honestly, I’m good now. Holding and seeing you again, I’m okay.”
“Me too,” she says, pressing her forehead against my chest again before she turns and holds her hand out for Dante.
She doesn’t go to stand up; she stays in my arms as she reunites with him in a similar way she did me. She kisses him tenderly, then waits for him to also assure her he’s as good as can be, considering what she’s been through.
They talk quietly amongst themselves. Dante’s own version of hell sounds a lot like mine, and she soothes some of his lingering stress and bubbling emotions, much the same way she did mine—with small, scenting touches and carefully considered words.
When Dante steps away, he even looks more relaxed. He’s still ready to go to war, but his tension and stress is dropping, and his scent is no longer so sour it hurts when you smell it. The push and pull of his dominance fades too.
Layne untangles herself from my arms to face Valentine.
She’s not pushing Dante or me away, but in a very Layne way, she dealt with us before dealing with our Alpha. On aninstinctual level, she knows Valentine needs something more than seeing his pack reunited.
I keep my hands on her. I still need the physical reminder that she's okay. I can see it, but I need the warmth of her.
“Val, come here, please,” she calls to him.
He’s standing as straight and as stiff as a board a few feet away from us. And I know why.
He’s struggling not to lose control in front of her. Since she was taken, he’s been working hard to fight off an Alpha rage.
But Layne isn’t scared of his emotions. She never has been. If anything, she wants the storm of his emotions, the ugly beauty we all sometimes have to bear.
“I am okay, Alpha.” Her voice rings out louder, clearer. And it’s a beautiful sound after not hearing her at all for a few hours.
Valentine’s chest is rising and falling faster, which is a good sign. He can see her, can feel her sweet presence, but he’s locked up tight and about to explode.
She turns to ask both Dante and me to give her a moment. Alone with Valentine.
Fuck, I’d give her the world if I could.
Without a hint of hesitation, I drop my hands from her body, and she walks to Valentine. She grabs his hands, her fingers pushing open his fists, forcing the tension from him. Then she gives his hands a different purpose entirely, from fighting to loving.
Moving them so they hang behind her neck, she closes the distance between them again to wrap her arms around his waist, leaning up to talk him off the ledge. It’s easy to see that his Alpha is at the point where only the touch of his Omega will calm him now.
I understand that. I know firsthand the magical properties of her touches.
But Valentine is dealing with a crap ton of aggression he really needs to release before all the noise in his head pushes him to rage.
He makes a sudden, strangled sound but contains it to the back of his throat. He should just open his mouth and bellow as loud as he can, but he’s likely worried it would scare her.
Layne keeps urging him in her gentle persuasion to lean on her, to let her help heal the rift he's currently treading.
I can’t hear what she’s saying to him—it doesn’t really matter—but instead of inciting him to argue or bicker the anger out of him, like Dante would, she’s coaxing him to be here in real time, instead of being trapped by all the possible outcomes he’s visualizing.
