The tremors are getting worse, and she sees it. She can scent the fear bleeding off me. Can probably scent my slick too. It’s warm and wet between my thighs, and my face burns with shame. My body answering hers the way my fucked-up biology dictates.
“You're shaking so hard.” The basil in her scent sharpens enough to sting my nose. “I hear your teeth chattering from here. That's the withdrawal. Your body is fighting off whatever theywere giving you, and it's going to get worse before it gets better.” She pauses. “I can help. If you let me.Onlyif you let me.”
So I am in withdrawal. Not a drug then? But then again, how can I trust anything she says. She might tell me anything that isn’t the truth. Gods, this is so fucked up.
“I'm going to tell you what I want to do.” Her voice stays low. “And then you're going to tell me if that's okay. If you say no, I stop. If you say nothing, I wait. If you say yes, I move. That's how this works. You're in control here. Do you understand?”
I don't respond. Don't nod. Don't do anything except keep my gaze locked on her, my breath shallow, my heart hammering so loud she must hear it. She watches me for a long moment.
“Okay. I'm going to take that as permission to keep talking.” Her scent softens, the sharp worry-basil easing. “I'm going to pick you up. Lift you into my lap and hold you against my chest. That way you can scent me properly, right at the source. Your body will be able to tell that I'm real. That I'm not trying to trick you.”
She pauses, watching my face.
“You can say no. You can always say no at any time. I'll sit in that chair across the room and I won't touch you. I'll wait as long as you need me to wait. Days. Weeks. However long it takes.” Her voice cracks slightly. “But I think your body needs this. I think you've been alone for so long that kindness feels like a trap, and I understand that. I've worked with omegas who've been through things you've been through. I'm not asking you to trust me. I'm asking you to let me hold you.”
My face must give her permission, and she nods slowly.
“Okay. I'm going to move now. Very slowly. Nothing happens behind your back. Nothing happens where you can't watch it.”
She slides from her chair and circles around beside me. I track every movement. Every inch she closes between us. Rabbit andfox. Prey waiting for the moment the predator decides to stop pretending.
Her amber eyes lock onto mine, and I search them for cruelty. For possession. For the sharp flicker that always comes right before someone decides they own you.
I don’t find it.
That doesn’t mean it isn’t there.
“I'm going to reach toward the mattress now. Resting my hand there so you can see where it is.”
Her hand moves slowly, so slowly, and settles on the mattress inches from my body. My breath stops. Lungs locked.Too close. Too close.She doesn't reach for me. Her hand rests there, palm down, fingers spread. Showing me she's unarmed.
“Good. You're being so brave.”
Brave.I'm not brave. I'm frozen.
Her other hand appears on my other side. Now she's bracketing me, and the trapped-animal part of my brain is screamingcage cage cageeven though she's not touching me. Even though there's still space. Even though I could still... I couldn't. I can barely lift my head.
“I'm going to slide my hands under you now. Under your shoulders and under your knees. It might feel strange. Your body might want to fight. That's okay. That's normal. You don't have to relax. You don't have to do anything except let me hold you.”
Her hands slide under me. Every survival instinct is screaming at me to fight. To do anything except lie here and let her put her hands on me. I can't move. I'm locked in place, my spine a steel rod, my breath coming in short sharp gasps that don't get any oxygen into my lungs.
“You're okay.” Her voice is low, steady. The kind of voice you use on wild, wounded things. “You're okay. I've got you. I knowhow scared you are. And that's okay. You're allowed to be scared. You're allowed to feel whatever you're feeling.”
She pauses, her hands warm and solid beneath me. My heartbeat slams through my whole body.
“I'm going to lift you now. Nice and slow. You're going to end up in my lap, with your head against my shoulder. That's all that's going to happen. Nothing else. Okay?”
I can't speak. Can barely breathe.
“I'll take that as an okay,” she murmurs. “Here we go. Nice and slow.”
She lifts me easily. She’s much taller than me, and heavily muscled. Both my thighs together are barely the size of one of hers, but that’s not surprising. Seven years of not enough food and too much fear have whittled me down to bones and skin and trembling. She lifts me as if I'm made of paper. As if I'm precious. As if I might tear if she's not careful.Don't. Don't be careful with me. It's worse when they're careful first.
“That's it. I've got you. You're okay.”
She climbs onto the bed, her back against the headboard, and arranges me in her lap. Each adjustment slow. Deliberate. My body tracks every shift of her weight, every flex of her arms.
“I'm shifting you a little, getting you comfortable. Your head is going to rest against my shoulder. Right here. That's it.”
