Page 39 of Protector

Dammit!I scrub my hands over my face again and try to think of anything but the heat in my core. I want to be angry—it’s so much safer than this horrible sensation of teetering on the edge of that dark place my mind seems about to slip into whenever I am reminded of the bunker and what was done to me while I was there. The throb between my thighs in response to his pleasure brings an echo of raw terror—and a fresh reminder that I can’t function without him. Only when he’s wrapped around me like he was last night does the constant, sucking undertow of darkness relinquish its grasp.

But try as I might, I can’t find it in me to be angry that he needs relief. Not when he’s clearly being as discreet as he can, and not when I can still recall how I writhed and begged him formore.He could have clamped a hand to my mouth and had me like he was clearly desperate to, and he didn’t.

That realization makes me slowly lower my hands from my face. For all intents and purposes, AX2 is nothing but a fusion of technology and biology. There was no reason for him to hold himself back—not when every instinct in the primitive parts of his brain would have been firing to mount the female offering herself to him. I don’t know of any fully human alpha who would have.

And yet…

I flush as I remember how he promised me he wouldn’t penetrate me—and how part of me desperately wanted him to.

He must have realized I would punish him severely afterward. One of the hallmarks of the AX model is how their programing wires in with parts of their brain to allow them to predict consequences.

Yes. That’ll be the explanation.

After all, he can’t feel empathy.

EIGHTEEN

ADDIE

I’m all too keenly aware of the way my entire body relaxes the second AX2 steps out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist.

“You’re getting cold,” he rumbles, eyebrows locking in a frown as he looks me over. “Put some clothes on.”

It’s about the last thing I expect him to say, and I have to remind myself that he’s not in control of the instinctual urge to keep me warm and safe. Nevertheless, I narrow my eyes in warning. “Command me one more time, AX2. I dare you.”

He huffs a breath, and there’s no mistaking the utter lack of concern as he cocks an eyebrow at me.

I grit my teeth, my pride flaring awake as I briefly consider putting him in his place with a pain receptor engagement command. But there would be no scientific value in doing so—it would simply be to hurt him. For following instincts he can’t help.

Besides, my nerves are far too frayed for a battle of wills right now.

“My mother brought clothes for you. Get dressed.” I echo his command and point to the chair where my father’s old clothes are neatly piled.

He obeys.

Something eases in my chest as I watch him walk to the chair. Reaffirming that he will follow my orders, that I am in control no matter what primitive instincts have been engaged by our mating, feels… safe. A sensation swiftly drowned out by hot embarrassment when AX2, still with his back to me, unfastens his towel, and I’m suddenly staring at his perfect, muscular backside.

Damn it all to hell!I swivel around, keenly aware that he’ll feel my mortification, and stalk back to the closet. In my lab, he was often undressed, and apart from the few times his body reactedunfortunatelyto my examinations, I never considered him a man. Something that seems impossible now.

With a force of will, I push away the memory of his warm hands stroking up along my thigh and focus on the clothes in my childhood closet.

When I was a teenager, my mother and I fought bitterly over my clothes. I wanted to dress like the adult I dreamt of becoming—business suits; crisp, button-up shirts; and a neutral color palate. She wanted to keep me as a child for as long as she could.

Eventually my father stepped in to force a compromise. The result was a wardrobe that looked like it belonged to a girl with split personalities. I took the pantsuits and blazers with me when I eventually moved out, leaving behind flowing dresses and frilly blouses.

I sigh as I rummage through the hangers. Not a black pair of slacks in sight.

Eventually I settle on a pleated cream blouse with a frilly collar and pearl buttons, then pick out a floral A-line skirt in mercifully muted tones that hits just below my knees, paired with wooly stockings. Unfortunately, the only shoes available that aren’t some shade of pink are a pair of black heels. I despise heels.

I almost pick the pink ballet flats with obnoxious bows adorning the toes, but the thought of sitting through an official debriefing wearing shoes that look like they belong to a doll makes me grab the black heels with gritted teeth. The moment I slip them on, my toes protest.

Just one more reason to look forward to being done with today.

I clip-clop over to the dressing table and find my old hair dryer, then run a brush through my tresses and pull them into a tight bun. At least I’ll look like I belong at the Pentagon from the neck up.

Finally I turn back around and find AX2 waiting for me by the door, hands clasped behind his back. He’s fully dressed now, but seeing him in my father’s old clothes makes me blink. Apart from his posture and army boots, he looks nothing like the soldier I’m used to. He looks… like a man who’s about to spend the weekend in a woodland cabin.

A flash of Dad wearing that shirt flickers through my brain, from one of the few times we all went to the mountains when I was still a child. I remember how it smelled like bonfire and crisp air when I curled up between him and Mom to listen to a story about a bunny going on an adventure.

---