Page 30 of Alpha's Rejected Warrior
The trust implicit in that small shift nearly buckles my knees.
I keep my hands where they are. Holding her face. Holding her steady. Because if I pull back now, whatever we just broke open will seal shut and never see the light of day again.
So, I don’t let go.
Her breath mingles with mine in the narrow space between us. I catch her heartbeat hammering from where my thumbs rest against the underside of her jaw, fast and wild, nothing like the controlled rhythm I’d expect from a woman who runs military drills before breakfast.
I kiss her again. This time her mouth opens under mine and the kiss changes, becomes liquid. Her tongue slides against mine, tentative at first, then bolder, and the taste of her floods my senses until I can’t think straight. My hands drift from her face into her hair, fingers threading through those dark waves, and it’s softer than I even imagined. And I’ve definitely imagined it. I can admit that now, with her lips hot against mine and her body pressing forward until there’s no space left between us.
Rhiannon arches into me, and the full length of her presses flush against my chest, my abs, my waist. She’s all lean muscle and heat, and when her hips grind against me she feels exactly what she’s doing to me. I’m hard. There’s no hiding it, no playing it cool, no clever comment to deflect with. She rolls her hips exactly once and I exhale sharply into the kiss.
Her hands find the hem of my shirt and yank it upward with zero patience. I break the kiss just long enough to pull it over my head and toss it somewhere behind me. The cool air of the room hits my skin and I register, briefly and distantly, that I’m standing shirtless in front of a woman who could bench-press me without breaking a sweat.
Her eyes move down my body. I’m not built like the wolves in her guard. No mountain of muscle, no supernatural bulk. Yet her gaze travels across the lines of my shoulders, my chest, and the flat plane of my abdomen with an attention that makes my skin burn everywhere it lands. Then her focus catches on the scars scattered along my arms. Old ones, faded to shades of white and silver. She reaches out and runs her fingertips along the longest one, which runs from my elbow to my wrist, and her expression shifts, becoming soft and recognizant.
She knows what these are. They’re not typical combat scars. They’re the marks of defensive wounds.
I reach for the laces at the front of her training tunic. My fingers find the string and I loop it between my thumb and forefinger.
I stop.
Is this what she really wants?
Not the heat, not the distraction. Me.The human with nothing to offer.
I hold her gaze. My fingers rest against the lacing without loosening it.
Chapter 11 — Rhiannon
Isense the question in his hesitation, and I answer him the only way I know how.
My fingers close around the string and pull. It slides free with a whisper of fabric, and I drag the tunic over my head, letting it drop to the floor. The thin linen undershirt beneath clings to my skin, hiding nothing. There’s no binding underneath. No barrier.
Ethan’s breath catches. Audibly. His pupils dilate and his jade irises are swallowed by black. The naked hunger in his expression sends heat pooling low in my belly.
I brace for him to grab, to take. Every Lycan I’ve known has operated on this instinct of dominance, ofmine.
He doesn’t, though.
He lifts one finger and traces a line from the hollow of my collarbone down my sternum, barely touching me. His eyes glide over the goosebumps that rise in the wake of his fingertip. He’s tracking every response like he’s studying me.
I’m not sure how to respond.
His mouth replaces his finger. I feel his warm lips press against my collarbone, drift up my throat, and find the soft skin just below my ear. My head falls back. My hands grip his shoulders and I hold onto the coiled force beneath his skin, every muscle locked tight with the effort of restraint.
I pull my undershirt off.
Ethan looks at me. Not my body.Me.His expression overflows with emotion, raw want layered with reverence. My chest constricts in a way that has nothing to do with desire.
“God, Rhiannon.” His voice roughens. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
No, not beautiful. Beautiful is a word for court dresses and sunsets and things that sit still to be admired. I am none of that.
But the way he says it makes me believe he means a different kind of beautiful, closer to awe-inspiring.
I don’t let myself stay in that feeling. Feeling is a trap I know how to avoid.
I press my palm flat against his chest and walk him backward. One step. Two. His eyes never leave mine, and he doesn’t resist, but just matches my pace with that infuriating almost-smile pulling at his mouth. Like he knows exactly what I’m doing. Like he’s choosing to let me do it.
