I kiss him through the blood. My mouth finds his, the metallic tang mixing with amber and salt and the taste of my own claiming. His arms wrap around me and he kisses me back, blood smearing between our lips, his tears falling against my cheeks, my tears falling against his, the bond pulsing between us like a second heartbeat.
His hand cradles the back of my head. My fingers grip his hair. The bite on my lip throbs with each pulse of blood, a bright point of pain I feel all the way down to my toes. The bond hums beneath it, alive, warm, flooding the spaces behind my ribs that have been empty for years.
Nicholas pulls back far enough to see my face, his lips stained with my blood. His expression holds something I’m going to spend the rest of my life learning to deserve.
“Will.”
Nicholas’s hand finds the bite on my lip as his fingertip traces its edge, the new bond between us fluttering and then settling.
I wish I had known it would feel this good. “I’m finally yours, Nicholas.”
“And I’m yours.”
33
Nicholas
I open my eyes and the first thing I see is the bite on Wilson's lip. He's tucked against my chest, his face inches from mine on the same pillow, his body curved into the space my arms made sometime between the last cycle of the heat and whatever time it is now.
The nest around us is wrecked, blankets kicked to the edges, pillows displaced, the sheets beneath us holding every scent so deeply the fabric will never wash clean. My arm is numb where his head has been resting. My body aches in that specific way that says I've used every muscle I own for the past two days, and none of them are speaking to me.
The bite itself is swollen, dark against his lower lip, the broken skin scabbed over with a thin crust that catches the morning light filtering through the curtains. I can see the impression of my teeth in the bruised flesh, resting on the most exposed part ofhis face. His lips part slightly in sleep, and the bitten flesh rises and falls with each exhale.
The pad of my finger traces the outer edge of the bite, barely touching, following the curve of the swelling where it meets the undamaged skin of his upper lip. The bond hums through that touch, a low vibration pulsing from my finger into my chest and back again. The connection I've imagined for five years is alive beneath Wilson's skin, a living thing that breathes when he breathes, beats when his heart beats.
Wilson stirs. His brow creases. His mouth shifts against the pillow, his lashes flutter, and his brown eyes open, unfocused at first, blinking against the light. Then his gaze finds my face three inches from his. He doesn't flinch.
The absence of his flinch hits me harder than any touch we shared during the heat. He opens his eyes with an Alpha's face filling his vision, and his body stays soft against mine, shoulders relaxed, hand still resting against my chest where it landed during the night. His pupils don't dilate with fear. His jaw doesn't clench. His hand doesn't shoot to cover his neck.
My throat closes around a sound I wasn't planning to make as Wilson sharpens his gaze on my face and his thumb traces a slow circle against my chest.
"Hey." His voice is rough, scraped raw from two days of use. "You okay?"
The laugh that comes out of me is wet, pulled from somewhere behind the pressure building in my sinuses. "You're asking me ifI'mokay."
"You look like you're about to cry."
"I'm not."
"Your eyes are doing the thing."
"My eyes aren't doing anything."
His mouth curves up, the bite shifting with the movement and a wince flickers through his expression before the smile settlesinto place around it. He lifts his hand from my chest and finds my face, thumb catching the moisture at the corner of my eye.
"Liar," he says.
I press my mouth against the bite on his lip, gentle enough that the pressure barely registers against the swollen flesh. He inhales through his nose, a soft catch of breath, and his body presses closer to mine. The bond pulses between us where my mouth touches the mark, a warm hum that vibrates through both of us.
Fingers curl against my scalp and hold me there, his mouth soft against mine, the kiss careful around the wound. He tastes like sleep and the faint metallic remnant of blood and the amber that's seeped into his skin from two days spent pressed against me.
Oliver shifts behind Wilson. A sleepy sound, half-grumble, half-word, vibrates as Oliver's face burrows into the gap between Wilson's shoulder blades and his arm tightens around Wilson's waist. His breath has mellowed into something softer and sated, and I feel the warmth radiate through Wilson's spine into me.
"Mmph." Oliver's mouth presses against Wilson's back. "Stop kissing. I'm sleeping."
"Your mouth is forming sentences," Wilson murmurs against my lips. "That's the opposite of sleeping."
"Sentences don't count before coffee," Oliver grumbles. He hooks a leg over Wilson's hip, pulling him closer. I feel him settle, his body fitting against Wilson's with the ease of weeks' practice. Then his hand slides down Wilson's stomach to mine, our fingers lacing together over Wilson's chest.
