Who the fuck are Charly and Rocky?
I think back to her backpack. And then it hits me.
The vaguely person-shaped stick, propped up carefully in the front pocket of her pack, like it was something precious. And the rock. Smooth and round, tucked in beside it. I’d noticed the rock, of course, but I didn’t think anything of it. It wasn’t big enough to do any damage.
Charly. A stick.
Rocky. A rock.
Her only companions in the wilderness. The only things she’s had to talk to for three years. That explains her constant stream of self-chatter. I can’t imagine feeling that alone in the world.
Up until this moment, I’d been thinking about Blue the way I think about most things: with my dick and my ego and the fun of the chase. The gorgeous, feisty omega who bit me, choked me, and cursed me out—and wasn’t that exciting? Wasn’t that a thrill?
But this. A girl so lonely she named a stick and a rock and told them goodnight. A girl tucking herself into bed right now and reassuring her imaginary friends that everything’s going to be okay, because there’s no one else in the world to reassure her.
That’s not exciting. That’s not a thrill.
That’s the loneliest thing I’ve ever heard.
I want to go in there. Pull back the covers and wrap her up and tell her she’s not alone anymore, that she doesn’t have to talk to sticks and rocks because she’s got us now. But Iknow exactly what would happen. She’d take my eyes out. And honestly, I’d deserve it.
We fucking chained her to the wall.
So I stay put. I stay on the couch, and I stare at the ceiling, and I listen to the silence coming from her room. After a while, her breathing slows and evens out. She’s asleep.
“Sweet dreams, sweetheart,” I say, barely above a breath.
I look around at the others. Archer’s jaw is tight. Silas has his eyes closed, head bowed, both fists still clenched on his knees. Darius hasn’t moved from the counter.
Nobody speaks.
We all heard it. We all understood.
And for the first time since I saw her, I’m not thinking about how to get into her pants. I’m thinking about how to make sure she never has to talk to a stick again.
11
Mo
Itoss and turn, the sheets soft and the bed impossibly warm, but the chain bites into my wrist every time I move and makes real comfort impossible.
I huff loudly.
Then I sense it.
My eyes snap open. Silas’s massive frame is standing over me in the dark.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I gasp. “How can such a big motherfucker like you move that quietly?”
He doesn’t respond. He hasn’t spoken to me yet.
His hand grabs my wrist. I struggle to pull away, panic growing, while he holds on firmly. His fingers tighten around the cuff, and I brace for the yank, the drag, the rough handling.
Then, to my complete shock, he unlocks the chain. The cuff falls away with a soft clink.
His calloused fingers find the raw skin on my wrist, and he rubs it gently. The touch is so careful, so at odds with his size, that my breath catches.
I don’t know what to do with gentleness.