Page 29 of Alpha's Rejected Warrior
She stops, her cries turning into hiccupping gulps of air. “No matter how hard I try, no matter what I do, everyone will always see me as the wolf who wasalmostLuna.”
With that, she just crumples, falling to her knees as she continues to weep. I kneel next to her and pull her into my arms, letting her whimper into my chest as I rock her gently.
“You are so much more than that,” I say. “You have to know that you are.”
“What doyouknow?” She sniffles. “You’re human.”
“Maybe that’s why I know it better than anyone. I’ve gotta be the least impressive individual in all of Clarion. Everyone here knows I’m far from perfect.”
That makes her laugh through her tears, and it’s a sweet sound. She wipes her face and looks up at me. The ice that’s usually in her eyes whenever they meet mine has melted away.
“I’ve never wanted to be perfect,” she says. “I just want to matter.”
“Same,” I say. “I think that’s all anybody ever wants.”
The strange air that swirled between us last night on the training field emerges again. Suddenly, I’m back in that space,where I’m sure she wants to kiss me.Please, don’t run away this time.
“I know I’m only human.” I stroke her cheek with the back of my fingers. “But you matter tome.”
She bites her bottom lip, regarding me coyly for a moment. Her golden-brown eyes search mine, and I watch the war play out across her face. Fear. Want. The stubborn refusal to let herself have anything that might hurt her later. I know that look. I’ve worn it my whole life.
I’m close enough to smell the woodsmoke and wildflower scent that clings to her skin. Close enough to see the wet tracks still drying on her cheeks, the way her lashes clump together into dark, damp points. Every rational thought in my head lines up in neat formation and tells me to step back. Give her space. Don’t make this worse.
Afterall, I’m a human in a fortress full of wolves. She’s the Commander of the Alpha’s Guard. She could snap my neck with one hand.I should leave.
I don’t leave.
Rhiannon moves first.
There’s no hesitation. No trace of the careful precision she applies to everything else in her life. She fists the front of my shirt and hauls me to her with a strength that reminds me, viscerally, of exactly what she is capable of. The kiss hits me like a closed fist. Hard, graceless, bruising. There’s nothing seductive about it.
She kisses me like she’s trying to burn something out of herself, like if she presses hard enough into me she can crush out everything she just confessed. I taste salt. Her tears or my split lip, I’m not sure. For a breathless moment I just absorb it, let her take what she needs, my hands hovering uselessly at my sides because my brain has short-circuited and I can’t remember how arms work.
Her fingers twist tighter in the fabric of my shirt. Her other hand grips the back of my neck, pulling me closer. The raw strength in her fingers registers against my skin, reminding me that she could pulverize me if she wanted to. She’s not gentle. She’s not trying to be. This is Rhiannon at her most unguarded, and for her, unguarded means operating at full force.
My better instincts take over. The same part of me that reads a room in seconds sees her desperation, feels her subtle shaking that she’d kill me for pointing out. Fury is her grief’s armor.
She doesn’t need someone to match her intensity. She needs someone to respond to it differently.
My hands rise to her face, cupping her jaw as if she might shatter, recognizing her fragility. The kiss slows under my touch. To all that aggression she’s giving me, my answer is patient, painstaking compassion. My thumbs trace the line of her jaw, reading the fever of her skin, the dampness where her tears haven’t dried. My movements are slow. Thorough. Giving the kind of focused attention necessary for catching what everyone else overlooks.
This kiss tells her she matters. That she’s not a title or a weapon or someone’s second choice.
Her grip on my shirt loosens. The fingers at the back of my neck stop digging in and spread open, sliding into my hair instead. Every single point of contact between her fingertips and my scalp lights up my nerves, and the sensation rolls through me like warm water.
Rhiannon makes a sound against my mouth.
It’s like a moan, but more raw. The kind of sound that only slips out when someone lets you see a part of them they’ve spent years learning to hide.
My chest aches from it. I save it in the photographic memory vault of mine, knowing with absolute certainty that I’ll hear it in my sleep for the rest of my goddamn life.
She’s letting me in.
I tilt her face up, just slightly, and deepen the kiss. I don’t push harder, but deeper. There’s a difference. And right now, it’s the most important difference in the world. Her lips part against mine and I breathe her in, woodsmoke and wildflower and salt. Underneath it all, my senses lock onto something that’s purelyherand refuse to let go.
She doesn’t pull away.
Some part of me expects her to, expects the Commander to reassert herself, to shove me back and tell me to get the fuck out of her room before she breaks every bone in my body. But she doesn’t. She leans into me, her forehead pressing against mine when the kiss finally breaks, her breath coming in short, uneven pulls that float across my lips.
