Fuck. I can’t let her run.
“Noah, you’re not fucked. You’re just new at all of this. It’s gonna take time and patience for things to make sense and feel normal again. You just have to trust yourself and trust us to help you find your way.”
She releases a little growl that’s absolutely adorable. I’m pretty sure she’ll swipe at me if I tell her that, so I keep it to myself.
“That’s the thing, I don’t know how to trust myself anymore. My emotions and thoughts are a fucking tennis ball bouncing back and forth between terrified panic, calm understanding, and this strange pull I’ve felt since I woke up in bed with you and Ruger. It’s confusing as shit. Do you get that?” she asks, and the anguish in her voice tugs at my soul.
I reach for her but she steps back, folding her arms across herself, tugging that wisp of a robe tighter. Her distrust saws roughly at the lining of my stomach, but I back off knowing she needs to get it all out before we can move forward.
“How can I trust myself when I don’t even know what I’m feeling anymore? And honestly, that probably bugs me more than anything else. Because even on my darkest, hardest days, on the days where the world crumbled and I had to find a way to get back on my feet and survive, I always had me,” she declares, pressing a hand to her chest. “I’ve always known that I could rely on myself. That I could, and would, do whatever it took to be okay. But now it feels like I can’t trust myself, and I don’t know how to get that back. I’ve gotten used to lonely. But lost is so much worse.”
The plea in her declaration wraps its fingers around my heart and squeezes painfully. Tears well in her eyes, and I curse this situation, and all of us, for putting them there. But I’m going to fix it. I have to fix it.
She continues, “I’m being forced to fit myself into a world I don’t know, and all I can rely on is a bunch of out-of-whack instincts and a group of complete strangers. I don’t know how to do that, Perth.” Her expression is pure agonized panic, and her hands make a clawing gesture near her face as if she wants to grab this entire situation and rip it to pieces.
Shit. I need to show her that she belongs here, that she’s one of us and always has been. I need to show her she can trust herself and us. Desperate to pull her out of the desolate thoughts she’s drowning in, I ask, “Do you dance?”
“What?”
“Do you dance?” I repeat. “Not like you do when you’re home alone rocking out, and not when you let loose in a club or bar. I’m talking with a partner, something more formal and structured?”
Once again, confusion crosses her face. The doubt and bewilderment that settles in her blue-green graze beats the hell out of the lost anguish and despair that was just there. I’ll take it.
A little flustered, she answers, “No, I don’t dance. I mean, I’ve never…”
“Perfect,” I chirp as I step closer to her in all her gorgeous glory and extend my hand. It takes effort to keep my tone light and playful so I don’t put any undue pressure on her, though my wolf is howling for me to grab her and chase her mouth with my own. I bat him down and ask, “Noah, may I have this dance?”
Her nose scrunches up adorably as she surveys first my hand, then my arm, and finally my face. I feel the caress of her perusal as if she skims her fingers across my skin instead of her eyes. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, keen awareness rising inside of me. Is she checking me out, or is she debating whether I’m safe?
I let my own eyes glide across her heart-shaped face, the soft angle of her jaw, the long line of her neck. I don’t let myself go any further, because I refuse to tempt the restless wildness already pacing inside my chest.
Mate.
The title and all that it means rings in my mind like a gong. I breathe slowly to quiet the overwhelming need to touch and taste and bite reverberating through me. That’s easier said than done because I know what’s wrapped beneath that flimsy robe, and I have all those dirty images Ruger planted in my mind circling like vultures.
Her scent blooms around me, and I bite my lip hard, using the pain to keep me from closing my eyes and falling into the memory of how good it felt to hold her that first morning.
As much as I want to get lost in her, this isn’t about me or how much I love having her so close again. This dance is for her.
I smile at her, and then my grin grows even wider when there’s a hitch in her breath in response.
That. That right there is her tell. That’s what I need to show her. That her body is responding to me, to my den, and that her instincts are trustworthy.
“It’s okay if you don’t understand,” I reassure her. “Will you dance with me anyway? Promise I won’t crush your toes.”
Noah hesitates for a second more and then slowly lifts her hand, the movement unsure, like she’s still debating what to do.
I wait for her to come to me, and it’s the most delicious agony.
The anticipation of how her skin will feel is beautiful torture. I want to know—no, I need to know—how it feels to thread our fingers together and what her hand looks like when it’s on top of my palm.
My heart speeds up with the awareness of what’s at stake here, the fact that she could easily say no when I desperately need her to say yes.
Come on, Noah.
An explosion of warmth erupts on my palm when she finally slides her hand into mine. Her skin is softer than silk, and something bright and joyful leaps inside my chest as my fingers close eagerly around hers.
Yes.
But then, when she looks down shyly and glances back up through her lashes with a tentative smile, I forget all about my hands. I have hands? I don’t even know what appendages are for a moment. Because when she looks at me through those sooty lashes, I drown in that blue-green gaze.
Oxygen ceases to be the essential element for my life—those eyes are.
One of my fathers always told me men fall faster and harder and to watch out for that. I didn’t believe him.
Fuck, was he ever right.
With that revelation unsettling my mind, I still have to pretend I’m composed and not some lovestruck fool. I’m not completely sure I succeed at keeping a sappy look off my face, but I attempt to look calm.
Striding backward, I guide Noah to follow, and she steps away from the mirrors. I pull us to the middle of the room, stopping just under the massive chandelier that lights the shop, because I love the way it paints golden highlights into her hair.
“I know you’re overwhelmed,” I start as we settle in across from one another, her delicate hand still gripped in mine. “Everything that’s happened since the day you got here is nuts.”
“You can say that again,” she quips, but her smile is weary. The return of her sarcasm helps me relax, eases some of the tension I didn’t even realize was tightening my spine. Ribbing means she’s not terrified.
“You’ve had to put up with a lot, and I don’t just mean Karen.” I pull a face.
That earns me a snort-laugh, bolstering my confidence and prompting me to step closer.
Fuck.
I could just stare at her for hours, memorize every smile, every freckle, and gleam in her eyes. I want to know what she looks like when she’s at peace and happy. When she’s sated. I want to know what she looks like when she’s coming on my cock…