Page 20 of Alpha's Touch
How could they not see it?
Every time Preston got off of work, Antonio would be there, waiting for him on the porch. No matter how much distance Preston tried to put between them, Antonio always slipped through, twisted his words, left Preston doubting even his own memories. Always, always using Preston’s weakness against him, as if Preston’s anguish was vital to him, something he needed and savored.
No matter how many times he racked his brain, Preston couldn’t figure it out. What had he done? What reason could there possibly be for Antonio’s obsessive fixation with him? He turned it over and over, sorting through the past, the memories, but nothing ever made sense. The connection between them—it shouldn’t exist. Not when they’d dated for only two months.
And yet, Antonio wouldn’t let him go.
Sitting on his bed, Preston dropped his elbows to his knees and buried his face in his hands. His feeling of hopelessness felt suffocating as he cried, no longer able to swallow back his tears. The hopelessness was suffocating. It pressed at his chest, squeezed his breath to nothing, until he broke, silent tears slipping through his fingers.
* * * *
With a sigh, Zeppelin closed the cupboards. Not a damn thing he’d bought from the farmer’s market could be stored in them. Rearranging things had only been an excuse to be in the kitchen with Preston. Zeppelin was trying, and failing, to come up with a way to tell his mate that he was a wolf shifter.
But ever since they’d come back that afternoon, Preston had done his best to keep his distance, though Zeppelin had caught his mate sneaking looks at him more than once. Maybe the best approach was just to get it over with. There was no gentle way to tell Preston what he was. No matter how Zeppelin said it, the human was going to lose his shit.
After shooting off a text for Quinn to pick up Zeppelin’s motorcycle and leave his SUV, he glanced at his mate’s sad appliances, then left the kitchen.
Preston wasn’t in the living room. The place was so small there were only two other rooms to check. That, or his mate had found a way to make himself disappear.
A quick peek in the closet-sized bathroom told him that his mate had to be in his bedroom. Turning in the cramped hallway, Zeppelin lifted his hand to knock when he heard the unmistakable sound of a phone clattering to the floor. He started to barge in, but a fallen phone wasn’t exactly a harbinger of disaster.
Preston might’ve accidentally dropped it.
But Zeppelin’s gut told him otherwise. He knocked on the closed door, hoping Preston wouldn’t be annoyed at the intrusion. He’d clearly needed some space if he’d shut himself in his room.
The soft sound of his mate crying made Zeppelin’s jaw tightened. He pushed the door open and spotted Preston perched on the edge of his bed, arms wrapped tightly around his stomach.
Preston’s head snapped up. He quickly wiped at his eyes then grabbed his phone from the floor before sitting back down. “Did you need something?”
To kill whoever has made you cry.
Crossing to the bed, Zeppelin sat next to his mate, forearms resting on his knees, fingers entwined. “I got massive shoulders.” He pointed to each one, as if Preston had no clue where they were located. “Pretty strong too. It takes a lot to make them buckle.”
His mate glanced at him. “You have the strangest way of saying you have a shoulder to cry on.”
“I wasn’t saying that.” Zeppelin reclined against the headboard, resting his laced fingers over his abdomen. “Who says I want your tears getting my shirt wet?”
Just as he’d hoped, Preston edged back until he was leaning next to him. Zeppelin’s boots hung off the foot of the bed. Preston’s feet just reached Zeppelin’s knees.
“Then what’re you saying? I don’t speak biker jargon.” Preston picked at a loose thread on his jeans, refusing to look up at him. “Or was that some kind of lumberjack language?”
Zeppelin chuckled. “Lumberjack?” He tilted his head and rubbed his beard, like he was giving it some serious thought. “I guess I would qualify since I do have a flannel shirt buried in the back of my closet.”
Preston glanced up at him beneath those thick lashes Zeppelin was crazy about. “A gift?”
Yes, you are.
“You guessed it.” Zeppelin nodded then started to pick at the frayed thread as well. “Chase gave it to me one year for my birthday.”
About six decades ago. At first, Zeppelin thought it was some kind of gag gift, until he’d seen the pride in the wolf shifter’s eyes. It was a miracle Zeppelin could put it on. The fabric had squeezed his torso so tightly he thought he’d have to have it surgically removed. To this day Vaughn brought it up. He just knew Zeppelin would turn him into a pelt if he reminded Chase about his long-forgotten gift. Hopefully it stayed forgotten.
“You ever wear it?” Preston’s finger kept touching his as they picked at the denim fray. He noticed his mate was purposely touching him, like he needed the contact to ground himself. His mate could touch him anytime he wanted.
Zeppelin held up his index finger. “The day he gave it to me. He sucks at guessing sizes, because he bought it a size too small. I walked around all morning looking like an overstuffed plaid sausage. Buttons were straining so hard I thought they would become projectiles and knock one of my men unconscious.”
“You’re lying.”
“You think I’d make up something that embarrassing?” He leaned in like he was telling his mate a secret. “Just do me a favor and don’t ever tell him I want to set that fucking shirt on fire. I think it deeply traumatized me. Anytime I see plaid I break out in a cold sweat and my muscles try to shrink in on me. No guy likes shrinkage.”
