Page 80 of Feral Omega

I realize the truth with a strange, fatalistic calm. I'm going to die, and it's going to be slow and painful and pointless.

Unless...

"W-Wraith," I chatter through numbed lips. "Come here. P-please."

He cocks his head, confusion and wariness battling in those intense, wolfish eyes. But after a moment, he unfolds from his crouch and approaches, steps slow and measured like he's trying not to spook a wild animal.

I almost laugh at the irony.

He sinks down beside me, the heat of him like a blast furnace against my icy skin. I press closer before I can second-guess myself, burrowing into his solid warmth. He goes rigid, frozen, muscles locking up beneath my cheek.

He's afraid.

Of me.

A hysterical giggle bubbles up my throat, escaping in a puff of frozen vapor. The most terrifying alpha I've ever seen, a one-man army capable of rending flesh from bone with his bare hands... and I scare him.

But despite the tension thrumming through him, he doesn't push me away. Just sits there, stiff and unyielding, as I leech the warmth from his massive frame.

His arm and hand twitch. Any other alpha would have wrapped his arm around a half-frozen omega, but not this one. He doesn’t know what to do. Has he never encountered an omega before?

The thought is bizarre.

“Um…” I hesitate, torn between fear and my need for more warmth. “You can… hold me, if you want.”

He tilts his head slightly, brow furrowing even more, those icy eyes boring holes into mine.

“W-with your arm,” I add since he doesn't seem to know what I'm talking about, suppressing another shiver.

Silence and staring.

I slowly reach for his massive forearm—it’s as thick as my damn thigh—and he freezes again as my fingertips brush his scarred skin. I try in vain to lift it. It’s too heavy. This alpha’s arm is too heavy.

“Can you lift your arm?” I ask quietly, afraid I’m going to scare off my only source of warmth. My only chance at staying alive.

He moves it an inch. Two inches. Three. Watching me the entire time. I feel like I’d have a better chance of surviving a spooked bull or stallion inside this cave than Wraith, so I move just as slowly, crawling under his arm and nestling into his side, taking care to avoid the blood caked to his shirt.

Not just blood. Chunks of flesh, too.

I must be fucking insane.

His arm settles cautiously over me. He’s holding his breath. The plumes of steam puffing from his mask are barely visible now. I can’t hear him rasping. He’s as still as a statue, staring at me sideways, pupils blown wide. I hear him swallow audibly.

“It’s okay,” I mumble. “Just for tonight.”

More staring.

I drift, exhaustion dragging me under. I'm not sure how long I float in that dark, dreamless void, but when I surface, the cave is filled with pale gray light. Dawn, peeking timidly over the snow-capped peaks.

Wraith hunches over me, fingers picking at the bandage on my arm. He glances up as I stir, a question in those icy eyes.

I nod, not trusting my voice. He peels back the fabric, the dried blood crackling and flaking. The wound beneath is an ugly gash, the flesh swollen and inflamed. But the bleeding has stopped.

I gulp warily as he inspects it with extreme care, his rough fingertips brushing over it with a gentleness I didn’t think he was capable of. When he seems satisfied, he sits back on his haunches and tears a strip of fabric from the sleeve of his coat. That must be where the other bandage came from.

His fingers are clumsy, fumbling with the fabric as he tries to retie it. Like a bear trying to thread a needle, all brute strength and no fine motor control.

"You didn't mean to hurt me before," I murmur, the words emerging without conscious thought. "Did you?"

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