I brush her hair from her forehead, whispering, “Do you like her?”
She nods mutely.
“Good.” I kiss her gently, and her eyes flutter shut.
The world slowly comes back into focus. I sit up on the floor, resting my back against the couch. Violet comes with me, sprawled across my chest, her breathing still ragged. Her skin is flushed and damp with sweat, her hair a wild tangle.
She’s beautiful. Absolutely wrecked and beautiful.
I run my hand down her spine. She shivers at the touch but doesn’t pull away.
“Come on,” I murmur hoarsely. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
I hear a soft grunt of protest, but she doesn’t resist when I shift her slightly to one side. I stand up and scoop her into my arms, ignoring the way my muscles protest.
She blinks up at me, her eyes heavy-lidded and hazy. “What are you doing?”
“Taking care of you.”
I carry her to the bathroom and set her on the counter while I turn on the shower, adjusting the temperature until steam begins to form.
When I turn back to her, she’s watching me with an expression I can’t read. Helpless and guarded all at once.
I take off the rest of my clothes, then hers, before guiding her under the spray, supporting her when her legs threaten to give out. The water runs over both of us, and I reach for the soap, lathering it in my hands.
“You don’t have to,” she says quietly.
“I know.”
But I want to. Need to. This is part of it, part of caring for your mate after claiming her. Even if she doesn’t know that that’s what this is.
I wash her carefully. Her arms, her back, her hair. She leans into my touch, her eyes drifting closed. When I’m done, I rinse us both off and wrap us up in towels.
She starts to shiver now, the adrenaline and alcohol wearing off. I carry her to the bedroom and sit her down on the bed. In the dresser, I find one of her oversized shirts.
“Arms up.”
She obeys, and I pull the shirt over her head. It falls to the bed, covering her. I tuck her under the blankets, and she curls onto her side, watching me with those enormous eyes.
“Why are you doing all this?” The question is barely a whisper.
I crouch beside the bed, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Because you shouldn’t think you’reunwanted, Violet.”
Her expression shutters. “I don’t want to talk about that.” She tries to sit up, but I put a hand on her shoulder, gently pushing her back down.
“Then don’t talk. Just listen.”
“Darius—”
“You’re important to me.” The words come out sounding rough, almost angry. “More than you know.” She tries to pull away from my hand, but I don’t release her. Her eyes flash with frustration, and I snap, “Why is that so hard to believe?”
“Because…” She stops. Looks away. Her jaw clenches.
I grip her shoulder tighter, willing her to look at me. “Why?”
She doesn’t answer immediately. Then, her expression turns so raw and painful that it makes my ribs feel like they’re being squeezed in a vise.
“The only people who’ve ever loved me are dead.” Her voice is steady, accepting. “Everyone else just tolerates me because they have to. Because I’m the Alpha’s stepdaughter, and it would look bad to cast me out. As for you”—she shrugs one shoulder—“I know you only want me because of the sex, for some reason. That’s all this is.”
