Page 55 of Star-crossed Betas

“I went for dinner and drinks with Niamh and Will.”

“Nice. You and Will famously make good choices when you’ve had too much to drink.”

“Mhmm. We drank so much that we actually fucked on the dinner table. Turns out I’m an exhibitionist at heart. My twin sister being right there was a little awkward, but we made it work!” A tiny little part of my brain tells me that was not the right thing to say. But I'm hungover. And he's bashing pans. A man can only take so much.

Fee narrows his eyes at me, and I’m ready for the fight. My head might be throbbing, but I’ll ignore it if we’re finally going to have this out.

But no.

He drops the pan in the sink, grabs his car key off the side and leaves.

I want to punch something.

I don’t, though.

It’s a Friday night, but I told Sammy I’d help him fit a bathroom in his new house tomorrow, so I went to bed early. I also went to bed alone.

Fee went out at around eight pm wearing his nice jeans and a dark green polo that fitted him sinfully.

He didn’t say where he was going, and I’d have rather swallowed my own tongue than ask him. Hasn’t prevented me from obsessing about it, though.

After what feels like several hours spent tossing and turning, I finally fall asleep, only to be woken up about an hour later.

A quick glance at my phone tells me it’s three in the morning. The front door slams shut. The tap runs in the kitchen. Then he clambers up the stairs, before stumbling gracefully into the wall.

When he literally crashes into the bedroom, I turn on the bedside light. He squints at the light and tries to cover his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Go back to sleep,” he mumbles as he face-plants onto the bed, fully dressed, still with his shoes on.

I sigh.

Tossing back the duvet, I get out of bed and begin undressing my barely conscious husband.

“W'you doin'?” he asks but makes no moves to assist me.

“Puttin' your drunk arse to bed.” Once he’s down to a t-shirt and boxers, I manage to wrangle the duvet and cover him up. I grab some painkillers and a glass of water from the bathroom and put them on his bedside table.

Fee snores like a freight train next to me, and I lie there wide awake, wondering if it’s ever going to get better or if this is just our life now. The last two months have really started to wear on me. At first, I thought I just needed to wait it out until he gotover it. Fee always gets over it. But not this time. I'm on eggshells around him now.

Fee rolls over, throwing an arm around my waist, and I hold my breath. Apart from occasionally reaching out for me in his sleep, Fee hasn't touched me in weeks. And I'm not talking about sex. I mean, not even a shoulder nudge, and I'm ready to burst out of my skin.

Wolf shifters are tactile, and the need for touch is as strong as the need to run for miles and miles. Scrunching my eyes closed, I try to fight the swell of emotion at the fact the only time my husband will come within a metre of me is when he's unconscious. Knowing it's largely my own fault, doesn't make it hurt any less.

I’m still wide awake when my alarm goes off a few hours later, and Fee doesn’t stir at the noise.

“Um, are you home for tea tomorrow night?” I ask Fee almost a week later.

He looks slightly suspicious but says, “Hadn’t made any other plans, why?”

“Niamh and Will are coming over for dinner. I was going to make lasagne—your favourite.” I’m not beyond bribery to get him to spend time with me, even if he is determined to be Frosty the Snowman.

“Sure, okay.” It’s the enthusiasm that warms my heart, I swear.

“Damn, this is actually really good,” Niamh says as we tuck into the lasagne I made.

“Thanks, tried a new recipe.”

“Ooo, whose is it? Delia Smith's?” Will asks, and I immediately regret opening up this line of questioning. My cheeks pinken.

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