Page 7 of Saddle and Scent
Embarrassing is too weak a word.
But he just nods, like it’s the most logical thing in the world.
“Yeah. You’re not seeing what I see.”
I can’t help it; I bark out a laugh.
“Which is?”
He’s quiet for a second.
“Someone strong enough to deal with this, even if it sucks. A woman who won’t quit.” Then, softer: “A beautiful Omega, even when she’s falling apart.”
I try to sneer, but it’s shaky.
“You practice these lines in the shower, or is this improv?”
He ignores me with that semi-hint of a smirk.
“Sit up,” he says.
I do what he wants, despite my better judgement, my intrigue surpassing the urge to crawl underneath these drenched covers and suffer some more through this heatwave of constant agony.
The mirror stands as an unflinching witness to this moment, its aged frame barely holding onto the scenes it reflects. My eyes are drawn to its surface, catching my own reflection—a woman on the brink of unraveling, every inch of me bared and vulnerable under the scrutiny not just of Callum but myself. My silver white ombre purple hair spills out in chaotic waves, sticking to my forehead in damp tendrils. The flush that spreads across my cheeks shines crimson and betrays the heat coursing through me.
It’s like staring at a stranger: this raw version stripped down to the essentials—struggled breathing and skin suffused with desire. My tank top clings desperately, outlining every curve and edge, a testament to the storm inside. And yet, there’s a pull, a magnetic draw in confronting this state of disarray; an undeniable pull towards self-acceptance.
There’s a curiosity in confronting this unguarded image—the tenacity hidden beneath layers of composure I've clad myself in for years. Here, laid bare is not just weakness but an echoof strength riding out the tumultuous waves of emotion. In the vulnerability lies power—a revelation I hadn't expected.
I let my gaze shift from the mirrored girl who looks simultaneously fragile and fierce to Callum's reflection behind me. He mirrors calm certainty, unwavering in his bearing as though rooted like an oak amidst a storm's fury. His presence is steady, allowing no room for shame or judgement—only acceptance.
For a heartbeat, I’m caught between wanting to hide away under sheets already marked by sweat and surrenders past—and stepping forward into this mirror-made world where nothing can be hidden. Each breath I take seems amplified, alight with anticipation that crackles through the air like static electricity.
And then he moves toward the foot of the bed. There’s grace in his motion; everything about him speaks calm authority that draws me closer without words. With knees bent into soft bedding stained with remnants of my struggle, he positions himself so our eyes align; giving me the opportunity to see those stunning eyes of his but also the reminder of his masculine presence from the glassy reflection of his backside in knelt position.
Where with a few crawling movements, can lead him right between my legs…
“You said you wanted help,” he murmurs, his voice resonating like a low hum through my veins as if he were serenading something dormant within me awake.
Each syllable is carefully crafted—a promise wrapped in sound waves gently reverberating off walls tinged with shadows from flickering candlelight scattered across surfaces nearby.
“Let me help,” he repeats softly yet firmly—offering more than guidance now—offering companionship amid chaos; standing sentinel beside me until silence retreats back intovoids beyond these four familiar walls marking sanctuary amid upheaval.
Caught between reality and reflection—there's no escape except forward; forward into trust—step by tentative step over thresholds guarded by fear turned ally under love's merciful gaze watching over us both tenderly all along.
I want to argue, to tell him that he’s already done more than enough, that I can’t take any more charity. But I can’t move. The next flare is already building, a fizzing pressure at the base of my spine, an itch behind my ribs.
His voice is calm, like he’s talking to a spooked horse. “You’re not broken. It’s just your body, Juniper. Stop fighting it.”
I swallow, then nod.
“Lie back,” he says, and I do. My legs fall open, and this time I don’t even try to cover myself.
He shifts closer, hands on the edge of the mattress, but not touching.
He gestures at the mirror.
“Watch.”
