Then why does it feel so fucking wrong?
I curl my hands into fists and force the words out. “Kill him.”
I watch Jet jog back to his bike to retrieve the hunting knife stashed there. When he returns, the sharp blade glints in the moonlight, his fingers wrapped tight around the black handle as he heads towards Morgan.
His breaths have got shallower in the time we’ve been stood here. We could probably wait for nature to take its course, but this is hard enough as it is. I can’t let him suffer when we can end it quickly.
How fucking merciful of me.
Shame and guilt hit me from all sides, and I welcome them with open arms. But I don’t move to intervene.
Ican’t.
Jet crouches down and grabs a handful of Morgan’s hair, tilting his head back to expose his throat.
All that pale skin.
And fucking bite marks. A low growl rumbles up and out before I can stop it, followed by a wave of possessiveness so strong I stumble forwards.
Jet glances back at me, eyebrow cocked. He has his knife against Morgan’s throat. One smooth motion and it’ll all be over.
Done.
It won’t be a problem anymore.
Hewon’t be a problem.
I’m about to plead for Jet tojust fucking do it already, when Morgan opens his eyes and looks right at me.
And smiles.
It’s small and barely curves the sides of his mouth, but it’s unmistakeable. His eyes light up in recognition, like I’m the best thing he’s ever seen.
Like I’m going to save him.
He’s not even noticed Jet, or the knife at his throat, gaze firmly fixed on me for what feels like years.
My heart thuds, and between one beat and the next, his eyes flutter closed again, and he murmurs two words that turn out to be my undoing.
“Thank fuck.”
I don’t know if it’s the pain in his voice or the certainty in it that I’m someone he can trust. Neither of which should make a fucking difference. But as Jet raises his knife again, I can’t let him do it.
“Stop.” It’s not loud, but the raw alpha power in it has him freezing instantly. A trickle of blood runs down Morgans throat, red smeared across the tip of Jet’s knife.
Rage burns hot and bright, and for one terrifying second I have the urge to snatch that fucking knife out of his hand and bury it in Jet instead. Snapping my eyes closed, I reach deep inside for the control I usually don’t have to think twice about, and thank fuck, the feeling passes as quickly as it appeared. “Bring him with us,” I grind out, voice rough.
“Seriously?”
I open my eyes to find Jet still crouched next to Morgan. Knife still too close to his throat for my liking. My lips curl back in a snarl and Jet flinches.
“Fine,” he grumbles, sheathing his knife and sliding his hands under Morgan’s limp body. “No need to bite my fucking head off.”
There isn’t, but he also doesn’t know how close I was to doing something far worse. Or how I have to fight the urge to snatch Morgan out of his arms and carry him myself. “We’llsend someone out to pick up his bike and get rid of this fucking blood.”
“On it.”
As soon as we reach the van, Mal jumps out and helps get Morgan inside.
