Page 36 of Possessive Alpha

Two steps later, he stops and twists to face me. “Martha?”

I take in his neutral expression. I think I’m learning how to read him better, so even though he’s hiding his emotions from me, I see his pain.

I want him. There’s no doubt in my mind about that. But I can’t ask him—or expect him—to give up this place to follow Clara and me. And I think he would. That isn’t fair.

He literally charged off into the night because his wolf sensed danger and he wanted to protect me. If we left here and something happened to him because of me…

No.

“You didn’t hurt me,” I say firmly, needing him to not just understand but to believe me.

He peers down at me. “But you left.”

I shake my head, then run a hand through my hair, flustered and awkward. I need to do something with my hands, but I’m not sure what it is. “Not because you hurt me. Because?—”

Silence.

“Because?” he prompts when I don’t continue.

Touch him. That’s the thing I need to do, the thing I always need to do around Ty Logan and I can’t. It’s not fair when I’ll be leaving soon.

“My brain never wants to work around you and I don’t know why,” I mutter.

A hint of a smile pulls on the corners of his eyes. “I might have some idea why.”

Mates. Logic seems to fly out the window and it’s like instinct, need, and want are in the driving seat ninety-nine percent of the time.

“You didn’t hurt me. Please don’t think or worry that you did.”

The tension in his shoulders eases. Not all of it, but some. “Okay. You’d tell me if I did?”

I nod. “You won’t, but I promise to tell you if you ever do.”

We observe each other for another long moment. My mind swings back to the time Ty told me he would take me outside to touch me. Everyone is at breakfast, so no one is out here.

Just us.

Heat floods my body, and I clear my throat. “Um, I’m hungry, so let’s go.”

I’m ready to literally run back into the house because it’s the only way I can trust myself to keep my hands off Ty Logan. It was hard enough before we slept together. But now?

Now it’s torture keeping my hands to myself.

“You still haven’t told me why you left.” He grips my shoulder, halting my attempt to slip away.

That’s right. I haven’t, and I don’t intend on it.

“It was late. I had to sleep,” I say, not meeting his eyes. “Now that we’ve had this?—”

“We’re not done yet. And you were sleeping just fine. In my arms. Where you belong.”

I glare up at him. “Will you stop saying things like that?”

He looks down at me, genuinely confused. “Things like what?”

Things that make me want to kiss you or give you a tray of brownies.

But I don’t tell him that. “I have to go.”

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