Page 8 of The Alpha's Protective Mate

His eyes are half-open now. “Did you save me?”

I open my mouth, and for a second, I forget how to speak.

“I—No, no. Can I call somebody for you?”

“H—Harry.”

“Okay, alright. Do you know his number?”

He seems a little out of it, but he has the number memorized. Slowly, he gives me one digit after the next, his voice rough and husky.

I dial the number, but no one picks up. I keep calling, and finally, a sleepy voice answers. “What?”

“Is this Harry?”

“Of course it is!” the person on the other end grumbles.

“I have Robert Montgomery here with me. He was badly injured.”

The alertness in his voice is followed by a creaking sound, as if he’s sitting up in bed. “Address?”

I shoot off the address, and he verifies it once before abruptly disconnecting the call. I sink to the cold floor beside the Alpha.

“This is going to be a long night,” I sigh tiredly. I still have to figure out what to do about the blood on the street and inside the shelter. Then there are the bodies. Where do I bury them? And how on earth do I explain all this damage?

“You have beautiful hair,” the Alpha suddenly murmurs. I notice the flicker of awareness in his gaze when I turn to look at him, but he’s not completely alert.

“Th—Thank you,” I stammer. “It’s mine.”

I close my eyes in mortification as soon as the words are out of my mouth. What was that? Why didn’t I just stick to a brief “thanks”?

I shake my head, embarrassed.

Of all the things to say.

It’s mine.

Sometimes I wonder if my brain cells like to give up on me momentarily, just to see what kind of gibberish comes out when they abandon me.

“I know it’s yours,” the Alpha chuckles. “Pretty hair always belongs to a pretty lady.”

“That makes no sense.” I pat his hand, pretty certain he’s not going to remember any of this tomorrow. “But thank you.”

Once he gets to a healer, the remaining wolfsbane will be removed from his system, and he’ll be fine. But right now, he’s acting a little drunk.

“Do you think I’m pretty?”

His question, along with this entire situation, is so ridiculous that I can either laugh or cry. I choose the former.

Leaning my head against the desk, I giggle. “Very pretty. In fact, you’re prettier than me.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” He rests his head on my shoulder, and from the limpness in his hand, I know he’s on the verge of passing out again. His voice is growing hazier. “You look—You look like a medieval queen with that beautiful hair and those eyes. I could get lost in them...”

He slumps forward into my lap, and I freeze.

“You okay?” I push him a little, but he doesn’t move. “Hey,” I say, poking his cheek.

He’s as still as can be. Sighing, I run my fingers through his short, silken strands. “May as well.”

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