Page 13 of Betrayed Pregnant Mate

“I don’t know,” Maisie says, her arms wrapped around her voluptuous curves. She’s looking back and forth between Veronica and me, clearly weighing the ethical implications. I shake my head at her—I’ve known her longer, and all I can do is pray that she holds an appropriate amount of weight.

I hear a cry when I close my eyes and try to open them again, but I can’t. A hand, so warm and soft, grasps mine, and I know it’s Veronica, her familiar fingers, that familiar squeeze. She’s crying, the tears landing on my skin, peppering me, and I feel her sadness wash over me, down through my body.

That part of me that was okay with dying starts to recede. Instead, I feel the complicated emotions she has for me. At the forefront, there’s a sort of adoration, devotion, love—that I haven’t felt in a long, long time.

Then, I feel Veronica forcing my palm open and feel the searing, almost pleasant sting of a knife sliding over the tender skin there. A moment later, after Veronica lets out a little noise of pain, I feel her palm start to slide into mine again. I try to jerk away.

“No, no, no,” I mutter, but I think it might come out as a garbled pile of noises. And I don’t think Veronica and Maisie care about my protestations now.

When our palms are together, a warm feeling suffuses me. It’s like sitting on the couch after a long day, relaxing in a warm bath. Lying in a field with your eyes closed to the sun, the smell of flowers around you, the promise of fresh lemonade just a few minutes away.

It’s one of the most pleasurable experiences of my entire life. All the pain leaves my body, replaced with the pure feeling of contentedness. Liquid honey, filling my body.

“Percy?” Veronica asks, her voice a hoarse whisper, and I wonder if she feels it, too.

Then, I feel my consciousness slip away from me like a boat on smooth waves.

Chapter 7 - Veronica

Once, when I was sixteen, I got high with a couple of my friends and went to an amusement park. Somehow, despite having no idea what we were doing, we hit the perfect high level that sent our giggles into the atmosphere, making everything funny but not over-emotional.

To this day, anytime someone would ask me about the best moment of my life or the happiest moment, I would tell them about the time I went on the Detonator at Worlds of Fun with five of my closest friends. It was the kind of ride that shot you straight up into the air, your shoulders straining against the restraints, everything in you feeling like it was pushing against the top of your scalp. Weightless, floating, bouncing on the edge of the sky.

And high, with a bunch of giggling girls, it was hands-down the closest thing to being truly buoyant that I’ve ever felt.

Now, that’s changed. With my hand in Percy’s, our blood mingling together in a way that I was wrinkling my nose together at just a moment ago, it feels like pure sunshine is moving through my veins. I remember that initial tug I felt all those years ago, the first time I saw him. This is that times a thousand. Like realizing I’ve been living in the world’s lowest settings for my entire life, and I’ve only just now turned on high definition.

Maisie is pacing around behind us, muttering to herself, her medical kit bouncing against her knee. I realize, with a start, that I can smell her, distinctly. The sweet scent of her blood, how her pulse skips in her neck, the waves and waves of hormones rolling around in her, mixed with cortisol and adrenaline.

And I’m not even looking at her.

My brain is waging war with itself. The memory of that wolf morphing into Percy plays through my mind again, how the strong curve of his thigh appeared, stacked on his other leg, where the wolf’s haunches had been just a moment before.

I think of the word vamps rolling around, falling easily from their lips. I think about how it felt when that man bit me, his teeth so sharp and needle-like that I didn’t even feel them at first. They were not the flat, masticating teeth of a plant eater. They were wicked sharp. Lethal.

And finally, the feeling I’m experiencing now, the dopamine skidding through my body, rushing up and down my arms, the complete sense of euphoria my body is floating in while holding Percy’s bloody hand in mine.

The fact that his breathing has slowed, calmed, that his airway sounds clear, that the color is coming back to his cheeks. There is not a single medical explanation for this happening. At worst, this little “ritual” of smashing our bloody palms together would expose us to a blood-borne pathogen, not cure one.

I think about the townies in Rosecreek, how they mention something special about this place, and their nonchalant attitude about the howls that sometimes rip through the night. I think about the large, hulking forms I’ve sometimes caught on the horizon late at night.

It’s impossible that any of this is true.

But there is so much evidence that points to my understanding of reality not quite fitting in with what happens in Rosecreek.

Maisie drops to her knees next to me, opening her med kit. She takes his pulse, counts his respirations, and measures his temperature. Everything is coming back to normal.

“I know you don’t believe in this stuff,” Maisie says, under her breath, as she continues working Percy over. “But there are some things I have to tell you right now, before the others get here.”

“Okay,” I breathe, wincing as she peels apart our sticky hands. She curses under her breath, wrapping mine first.

“Let’s hope this heals fast, before anyone notices the matching wounds,” she says. Then, flicking her eyes up to mine, “A blood bond between a shifter and a human is unprecedented, to say the least. As far as I know—and I know a lot—I don’t think it’s ever been done.”

The words float through my head. It’s like she’s speaking a different language to me.

“The alpha and luna will be absolutely furious with me, and maybe even Percy, if they find out this happened,” Maisie continues.

“Alpha?” I ask, eyes narrowing. “Luna?”

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