Page 145 of Pack Scratch Fever
He’s driving with one hand, his right one resting next to my thigh on the seat, as if he wants to touch me.
I wish he would.
“Catmint and catnip,” I sigh. “We go together.”
He snickers.
I’m still exhausted from my sickness, but my body responds to his earthy scent. Arousal swirls in my core despite my exhaustion.
“I know I’ve said it before, but you’re welcome to stay as long as you want,” Poe says. “The nesting room is yours. It will never belong to anyone else.”
My stomach flips.
“You don’t have to do all that for me,” I murmur, repeating the same sentiment for the thousandth time.
“We’re doing it because you matter to us. Because you’re worth it.” Poe’s tone is gentle.
It still doesn’t feel true.
The ugly, nasty voice in my head keeps screaming that I don’t deserve any of this.
The voice sounds a lot like my mother, and at other times my father.
“I apologize if we made the situation with your parents worse,” Poe murmurs, as if reading my mind. “It’s…difficultfor me to hear you being talked to like that.”
“It’s the only time I’ve felt safe around them,” I admit. “When the three of you were there, I knew they couldn’t hurt me the way they wanted to.”
The scent of his frustration fills the car, harsh with a note of burnt wood.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “For everything.”
I shake my head. “I know, Poe.”
He hesitantly places his hand on my knee, and I let out a sigh of relief.
I missed his touch.
A deep rumble sounds from his throat, and tingles race down my arms.
He purrs for me, keeping his hand gently on my knee while I hum contentedly.
The drive to the packhouse continues in silence. I eventually doze off, and when I open my eyes again, we’re parked in thesprawling driveway. Poe watches me, his grey eyes carefully reading my face.
“Welcome home,” he says.
It almost feels like it, too.
I’ve never considered my apartment my home, nor my parent’s house.
The rescue was the closest thing to a home for me—but it’s possible the packhouse could be the place I truly belong.
Poe helps me out of his car and keeps his arm wrapped around my waist as we head inside. I try not to tremble in his hold as shockwaves of sensitivity dance down my arms.
I missed his touch.
“Are you okay?” he asks softly.
“I think so,” I murmur. “It’s a lot to process, and I’m feeling dizzy.”
