But I kept fighting.
For them—my Protector and Revered.
I was an Ignis.
Even if my destiny was that of pain.
I would wield my power, and I would not fail my mates.
Not while I lived.
Chapter 38
Aran
THE CHOICES WE MAKE
Metamorphosis—Day 55, hour 5
I woke up to a body choking beneath me.
My bruised forearm was digging deep into John’s windpipe and crushing off his flow of air. He was pressed into the bed with a crimson face.
As I stared down, a horrible sense of foreboding washed over me.
What a way to start the day.
John opened his bulging eyes and flashed brilliant white teeth. He grinned at me like he wasn’t asphyxiating by my hand, and his dimples stood out in stark relief.
Had his eyelashes always been so long and full?
John’s grin turned cocky, and he winked at me like he was the one on top.
I exerted more pressure and asked, “Why am I in your bed?” My morning voice was rough and scratchy.
Last night, I’d fallen asleep on the floor with a comforter wrapped around me. John had tried to pull me into the bed, but I’d snarled and fought until he’d climbed in alone. I’d fallen asleep with his face hanging over the side of the bed, glaring down at me.
I knew I’d done the right thing.
Sure, things seemed good between us, but we still hadn’t talked through everything that had gone down. I didn’t feel comfortable with the situation even if he said it was fine.
There was a constant pit in my stomach.
I was waiting for John to dwell on what had happened and hate me.
Sleeping separately was the least I could do to protect myself.
At least, that had been the plan.
For some reason, I’d just woken up on top of him.
John smirked casually beneath me, like we were just two friends hanging out and his face wasn’t still turning three shades of purple.
I loosened the pressure a little. “Explain, John.”
He arched an eyebrow tauntingly. “My bestie doesn’t sleep on the floor.” Something intense flickered in his eyes. “You sleep in my arms.”
I forgot how to breathe.
Every day, the sheer gall of men astounded me.
“Don’t say things like that.” I tensed my thighs and leaned forward. “I have half a mind to finish you off right now.” I increased the pressure so my full body weight was flush against him.
John tipped his head back, and his Adam’s apple pressed into my palm. He chuckled, and his warm skin vibrated.
My toes curled.
Zips of concentrated pain streaked down my spine.
I froze.
John took advantage of my momentary pause, and with disturbing strength, he broke my choke hold and flipped us over.
I was at his mercy.
Pinned beneath his warm body, I drowned in sandalwood and musk.
“Next time,” John drawled lazily as his hooded eyes twinkled, “try to put up a fight, Aran. That was embarrassing.”
I bared my teeth and jackknifed my legs at his shins.
“Tsk, tsk.” He pressed his hips forward so I couldn’t move.
A hardness dug into my lower stomach.
The zips of pain became shooting streaks.
My vision blurred, and I struggled against his hold with all my strength.
John didn’t move an inch.
He leaned closer and wrapped his arm around my head. A network of veins trailed across his hands and stuck out in stark relief against his forearms.
I forgot how to breathe.
Somewhere along the way, I’d stopped viewing him as just a friend. He was an extremely handsome man that I spent every waking moment of my life beside.
Agony.
John rubbed his fist against the top of my head and ruffled my curls. “Where I’m from, we call this a noogie.”
I tried to speak, but he adjusted his arms so his veiny forearm was pressed against my mouth, gagging me. “Fshivjnavuq.” My voice was garbled.
“What was that, bestie? I can’t hear you.” John taunted.
I opened my jaw wider.
Then bit down hard until copper flooded my mouth.
John let out a low, rough noise.
I pulled my head back. Blood dripped down my chin, and I spat it out.
The muscles pinning me to the bed tensed, and John whispered, “Did I say you could spit?”
It took my brain a second to process what he’d said.
When I did, the pain exploded like grenades down my spine.
I made a mental note to add it to my list of times I’d been sexually harassed by my teammates.
I didn’t know who I was filing a complaint with, but someone in the High Court would be hearing from me.
“You’re such a pervert,” I said with a nonchalance I didn’t feel as I punched him in the kidneys and strained to push him off me.
Sometimes I forgot that John was a feared assassin with whipcord, steel muscles.
Now I remembered.
The thighs pinning me to the bed could run for miles, and the arms wrapped around my face had snapped the necks of ungodly.
John’s fingers caught on my curls, and he started rubbing my scalp. “Please, you know you love me.”
My sleepy brain ignored his erratic behavior and purred with delight.
I closed my eyes. “Ugh, that’s good.”
John’s fingers were magic.
The streaking agony down my spine was expected.
The duality of man—pain and pleasure.
After a few minutes of absolute bliss, John said something I missed under his breath, and he pulled away.
“No.” I opened my eyes. “I didn’t say you could stop.”
John licked his full bottom lip and grinned. “What do I get in return?”
“We’ll strike a deal.” I slapped at his limp fingers to try to get him to start massaging again. “You give me a head massage every day, and I’ll laugh at all your bad jokes.”
John slapped me back. “But you already do that?” He whined. “I need a better reward. How about you massage me back?”
I shook my head. “We both know you stink half the time and are too tired to shower. No way am I touching your nasty, sweaty ass. At least I’m always clean.”
John trembled dramatically. He threw his shoulders back like he was taking multiple bullets to the chest, then he flopped backward onto the bed. “How you wound me.”
I rolled out of the way and narrowly avoided being crushed.
What I didn’t say was that I low-key loved the scent of John’s natural musk.
After a long day of training, with adorably, messy hair, he always collapsed into bed with a grin while reeking of sandalwood and salt.
John chilled and went with the flow, and sometimes that meant falling asleep without showering.
Not relatable.
My smile faltered, and I picked at my lip.
I didn’t shower to be clean. I showered because I was covered in a grime that no amount of scrubbing could get rid of.
Also, I enjoyed singing moodily under the spray.
The demons had once walked in on me making up a song and we’d mutually agreed to never speak of it again. Since I’d gone off on a lyrical tangent and had rhymed “dying alone” with “traffic cone” it was probably for the best.
Some things were better not discussed.
Now John popped up above me and pulled my fingers gently away from my lip. He nudged my shoulder and asked, “What does the Greek symbol ligma stand for?”