Page 15 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

Just me and my feral alpha and the dark.

I scoot closer to Wraith, seeking more of his warmth, but he pulls away again. For a moment, I'm afraid he's going to try to leave, and I catch his arm.

"Wraith, wait, please…"

Oh. He's just shrugging out of his hooded sweatshirt.

He drapes it over me and the movement causes my drenched silk scarf to slide completely off his face, pooling loosely around his scarred throat and chest.

He doesn't even notice, even when I stare for a second, which made him full-body recoil last time. He just sits there exposed, rain drumming above us, blue eyes so vacant they might as well be painted on. But when I slide under his arm and into his lap, he doesn't pull away.

I start purring.

I don't even mean to. It just happens. This soft, rumbling sound that omegas make to soothe distressed alphas, though I've never had reason to do it before.

Never had an alpha I loved.

My purr fills the tent, even over the pattering rain, as I stroke gentle circles on his solid chest and abdomen, following the ridges of scar tissue over solid dense muscle.

Gradually, so gradually I almost miss it, Wraith's expression shifts. His eyes focus slightly, like he's fighting his way back through layers of static, and his hand moves—sluggish, uncoordinated—to pull the scarf back up over his lower face with a low, miserable growl that shatters my heart.

He moves suddenly toward the tent entrance like he's going to leave, to walk back out into the storm and disappear forever.

"No!" I grab him. "Please don't go. Please."

He slowly looks back at me, and I see the question in his eyes even through the dissociative haze.

Why?

"Because it's still you," I whisper. "It doesn’t matter what you look like. You’re still the alpha who makes me feel safe. Still my mate. And I..."

The words stick in my throat, words I never thought I would ever say to an alpha. Words that feel too big, too soon, too everything.

But it’s the truth, and he needs it.

"I love you."

Every muscle locks up, and his eyes widen slightly.

I lean in and kiss him.

Sharp points press against my soft mouth. A canine catches my lower lip as I lean in deeper and blood wells immediately, copper flooding my mouth.

A low, desperate growl tears from Wraith's chest. His massive hand comes up to cup the back of my head and he pulls back slightly, eyes dazed, first flicking to mine, then laser-focusing on the blood I feel on my lip.

"Wraith?" I whisper.

He moves so fast I don't have time to react.

His head dips and his jaws part. His tongue curls out from between those sharp teeth, long and wet and hot as it sweeps away the droplet of blood in one long, unbroken line. Without the normal confines of a mouth, I can see exactly how it moves, see the muscle flex and curl as it follows the trail of blood to my lip.

I gasp and my thighs clench involuntarily.

He freezes at my reaction, starting to pull back, but I catch his face in my hands, nearly cutting my palms on his teeth.

"No," I breathe. "It's okay. Please."

He growls, but his tongue returns to my skin. Without lips to guide or limit the movement, he has to be more deliberate, more careful. I can see every motion as his tongue traces along my jaw to find the source of blood on my lip, watch it navigate around his own sharp teeth.