Page 19 of Sold Rejected Mate
“Okay,” I say, following her directions and closing them, though I’m dying to see her—to know her body. Earlier, touching her leg was an impulse, then Ifelther all at once. That pulling in my chest and gut is getting even stronger, my wolf demanding that I climb into bed with her, despite the fact that I know better, that she’s hurt, that it’s the last thing she would want right now.
With my eyes shut, I feel her shifting, hear the softwhooshof a piece of clothing hitting the floor. Now, it’smythroat that feels dry, my hands shaking as I ball them into fists, resisting the urge to reach out and touch her, to skim my fingers along the backs of her calves.
Then her hand slides down my shoulder, and seamlessly, as though she’s directing me through touch alone, I know to stand up and take her hand. She guides me with her, using me as support as she walks to the bathtub.
It takes some maneuvering, but I’m able to get her in with my eyes shut. Once she sinks under the bubbles, I open my eyes and swallowhardat the sight of her.
My wolf is howling, on his back, kicking at the sky. Absolutelyfuriousthat this woman is so close to me, her bare shoulders milky and soft, and I’m not touching her.
Too bad. The trust I’ve gained from her so far is too precious for me to waste by trying to put a move on her now. Plus, she’s in pain.
Moving slowly, like she’s still that startled creature who might flinch back from me, I move to the cabinet and fetch a washcloth, handing it to her with a bar of soap. The soap isunscented—the smell of the oil is already too strong, too much for my nose.
The water makes thick whooshing sounds as she dips the cloth in the water, suds it with the soap, and plunges it under the water again, clearly running it over her legs. She surfaces, mouth parted, breathing a little labored.
My cock is hard. From the sight of this still sooty, broken woman bathing herself. What the hell is wrong with me?
After cleaning her other leg, she wrings it out, grabs the soap again, and seems to take a moment to try and breathe. I fetch her a glass of water, but her hands are dripping, so I hold it to her mouth.
As I hold it to her lips, her eyes flit up to mine, wide and glassy.
At first, I thought her eyes were brown, but now, looking at them, I can see that they’re a dark, dark green. Like juniper or pine. A deep hunter green, with a touch of shining emerald.
When the cold water starts to spill on her, she makes a sound like a laugh and pulls back, her breasts nearly rising up out of the water.
Gods.I turn away, walking the glass to the counter, adjusting myself as I go.
It’s only worse when I come back, and she’s in the same position, eyes shut, clearly exhausted. When I sit next to her, she holds the cloth to me limply, then gestures to her arms.
I swallow, take the cloth. Dip it in the water, fingers itching to keep going, to find her skin under the soap and soil and suds between us. But I don’t. I lather the cloth with soap, run it over her arms, rinse it, and run it over her arms again.
Then it’s time to wash her hair, and she scoots forward, leaning her head back for me. I use the water cup, filling it and running it through her hair, which gets brighter with each rinse, soot and ash coming out in swirls. I realize I’ll have to drain the tub and refill it so she doesn’t get dirty all over again.
I wash her hair, massaging my fingers into her scalp the way they do when I get my hair done, and she makes a noise from the bottom of her throat that damn near makes me feral.
Since when did being a nurse turn me on? Do I have some sort of caretaker fetish?
Even as I think it, I know it’s not true. Because it’s not about taking care of her—it’s abouther. That strange tug toward her, this feeling that I own her, that I alone am responsible for keeping her safe. Happy.
Satisfied.
I close my eyes again to drain the water, keeping them closed until the tub fills again. I’m not used to having sexual desire and not acting on it, and the effort of it makes my head pound as my wolf scratches at his cage, demanding to be let out. Insisting that he could do a better job with this.
But I keep him shoved down and finish bathing her, rinsing her hair, grabbing her a towel, and closing my eyes again, letting her use me as a support once more as she climbs out of the tub.
I bring her back to the guest room and have her sit in the armchair while I change the sheets. If I were like my parents, I would hire staff to do these things for me—it’s not for a lack of funds—but I don’t like having strangers in my home.
When the bed is ready, I close my eyes one last time so she can step into the hand-me-down pajamas, then I help herback into bed. She’s exhausted, letting her head fall back against the pillow, but she’s clean, and she smells amazing. Still—maybe because of the oil in the bath—I can’t quite catch a scent on her. Can’t figure out who she is.
When she’s tucked into the bed, I back out of the room as quietly as I can, turning and heading down the hall so I can take care of the problem in my pants before she wakes up again.
***
I wake up hours later to twilight outside the windows. It casts the mountain range in blue and purple, a gentle, hazy light filtering down through the trees and against the house.
Then I realize I haven’t woken up organically. My phone is buzzing in that shrill, insistent way that meansfire.
“Shit,” I snap, hopping to my feet, grabbing the phone, but I’m clumsier than normal, tripping and accidentally hitting theEnd Callbutton.
