“Let me see,” he said softly as he uncapped the antibiotic ointment.
I pulled the paper towel back to reveal the jagged edges of the cut. But the pressure had done its job, and the bleeding was much slower.
I hissed at the friction as Craig spread the ointment along the edge of the wound.
“Almost done,” he replied, then pressed the gauze to my arm.
“I’m used to doing this myself,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.
He glanced up, and there was something pained in his eyes. “You shouldn’t have to.”
“I…”
I didn’t know what to say, and the ache in my chest grew.
He gave me a soft smile, then started winding the bright blue vet wrap around my arm. “Tell me if it’s too tight.”
“Ok,” I whispered.
He moved with the practiced ease of somebody who’d tended to their fair share of wounds over the years. But it was the gentle way he held my arm that stood out.
Once he was done, he faced me, holding my left hand in his while his right fingers traced along the hidden edges of the cut. “Are you sure you don’t need to see a doctor?”
“I’m sure.”
He looked up, and our eyes met. “I… I just need to know you’ll be ok.”
I opened my mouth, but no words came out. His desperate sincerity caught on some long-repressed instinct.
Something deep inside longed for this—cravedit. For once, I didn’t have to be strong. I felt safe letting an alpha—thisalpha—take care of me.
There was a shift between us. It may have been nothing greater than the theoretical butterfly that flapped its wings, but I felt it with the force of a hurricane.
Craig stepped closer, still holding my arm between us. He cradled my wrist with his left hand, while his right traveled up my arm.
His fingers paused at my elbow, giving me a chance to ask him to stop.
No words came.
His hand continued up, fingers dancing over the line where my T-shirt sleeves ended. He paused again at my shoulder.
A soft sigh escaped my lips as his calloused palm came to rest against the side of my neck.
Another step forward. His fingertips skimmed my unmarked bonding point.
My breath caught in my throat, and every nerve tingled.
His gaze flicked from my eyes, to my lips, then back.
It was the tiniest movement, but the question it carried couldn’t have been louder if he’d screamed it from the rooftop:May I kiss you?
My reply was a single—almost imperceptible—nod.
I was tired—so tired. I’d denied myself everything for over a decade, and the weight of another refusal would be too much to bear.
My eyes fluttered shut as he leaned in.
His lips were slightly chapped. The kiss was gentle… tentative.
