Page 43 of Sigma
The last of my control snapped when she touched me. Nude, vulnerable, pleading, beautiful. Having her plead with my name on those gorgeous lips? Deadly.
“Look at this,” I gesture between us. “You’re offering to throw it all away for a monster you don’t know? One who doesn’t want a family? One who can’t even purr for you?”
She flinches and the look in her eyes tells me she hadn’t thought about the lack of purring yet. I’m not one with my wolf. What I know of typical shifter biology means that she’ll most likely never get that from me. She won’t get most of the benefits that come with being mated to an alpha.
A pack. Safety. A family. The comfort of the alpha’s purr. The only sign of my wolf during coupling so far is the occasional threat I feel with the cold trying to penetrate just before I knot and again just before I come.
“Want some dinner?” she asks.
I stare. This woman.
“My dad’s mate cooked. She made us her delicious beef stew with fluffy dumplings. She also made us a batch of her award-winning chili and a whole bunch of cornbread muffins. Or there’s chicken divan and basmati rice. Or–”
“What the fuck is chicken divan?”
“It’s a creamy chicken and broccoli casserole with a cheesy crust on top. It’s one of my favorites.”
My stomach growls.
“Chicken divan it is.” She squats to grab the towels, fetches the keys from the floor and tosses them at me. I catch them. She leaves.
I hold still, staring at the keys in my hand dumbfounded for a while, before I finally give in, squat, grab the two weapons and follow.
The door is open, and good smells spill out. The radio is on, playing Pearl Jam. She’s microwaving food, wearing one of my flannel shirts.
Fuck sakes.
I jiggle the weapons in my hand and set them on the counter beside her. “These need to be in grabbing distance of you at all times if I’m anywhere near.”
She looks over her shoulder and tucks her hair behind her ears, eyeballing the weapons. “Gotcha,” she says and turns back to the food.
Fuck, she looks good in my trailer, in my shirt, at my kitchen counter.
I go into the bathroom and turn the shower on.
Her toothbrush, hairbrush, and a hair tie sit on the counter. There’s a bottle of woman’s face wash beside the tap.
In my shower there’s a giant purple netted shower sponge thing and four more bottles of girl shit taking up room on the shelf.
She’s made herself at home here.
I spot myself in the mirror. Fuck sakes. I look worse than a jacked-up Hannibal Lecter. I take the muzzle off and hang it on the hook on the back of the door, drop the sweatpants, load my toothbrush up with her cinnamon toothpaste, and get into the shower.
I need this. Hot water. Soap. The toothbrush. A minute alone outside that damp, dusty cage.
***
I step into the bedroom and it’s full of her stuff. She’s made the bed with the new bedding I bought. There’s another hair tie and a beer bottle on the nightstand. There’s a tall basket of her clean clothes on the floor. There’s a small, rumpled pile of her clothes from yesterday on the dresser.
I pull on a clean pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt then reach into the wardrobe and grab a sleeping bag before tagging one of thetwo pillows on the bed. I don’t bother to resist putting it to my nose and taking in her scent.
She watches me do this from her spot at the kitchen table where she sits with a perfect view of my idiocy. She’s smiling. She looks happy.
Fuck me.
I set everything on the bed and open the bathroom door again to grab the muzzle and hang my damp towel on the hook.
She’s got a plate of food in front of her, and she’s set the place across from herself with another plate of food that smells delicious. And a beer for each of us.
