Page 30 of Forbidden Bonds
“I shouldn’t have bitten you again. It’s really bruised.”
This gentleness and tender care fill a place inside me that’s been cold and withered. A weight settles at the back of my eyes, and tears spill down my cheeks.
He stills, then turns me to face him.
“I’m sorry,” he says,
My eyes flash to meet his. “What are you sorry about?”
He releases my chin and rakes his fingers through his damp, messy hair.
“Whatever I did to upset you.”
“Did I say you upset me?” I sound cranky and defensive.
“You don’t fucking have to. I mean, you’re mated to me.” He gestures toward himself, his tone bitter.
My brows pull together. “Well, to be blunt, you could do with a wardrobe makeover, given you live in a luxury apartment. But, that aside, what was that tone about?”
“I need to tell you,” he says quietly, looking away.
Coldness seeps across the bond. My heart beats too fast as he picks up the tube of antiseptic and carefully applies it. Next, heapplies the dressing, patting it down over the small wound. He’s so heartbreakingly gentle.
Who knew alphas came with a tender side? Who knew they could be vulnerable, because that’s what I sense, what I finally identify leaking through the bond.
When he’s done with the dressing, he scoops me up into his arms.
“I can walk,” I say.
“I like carrying you,” he replies. “You don’t weigh anything.”
There is accusation in his voice, like I need to take better care of myself. Yet I’ve lived in a perpetual state of stress. Some days, I didn’t feel like eating at all—especially if Jenda wanted to perform her tests… or Cohen was involving me in one of his twisted power plays.
In the lounge, he lowers me onto the couch and sits on the coffee table, facing me.
The door is still firmly shut on his mind, but whatever is coming, I sense I won’t like it.
“I can’t go outside.”
My brows pull together.
He looks away, exhales raggedly. “At all. Ever. I have a panic attack even stepping beyond what I consider my safe zone. I tried to go into the underground parking garage once…” His chest starts to heave, almost like he’s reliving the trauma again. “I nearly got someone fucking killed because I couldn’t step outside the door.”
His pain is palpable, reaching across the bond.
So much guilt.
I put my hand on his knee.
He flinches back. “So, now you know,” he says. “What you’ve mated to.”
I shake my head.
“Agoraphobic,” he says, drawing the word out.
“I don’t understand,” I say.
“I’m a fuck-up,” he says. “I can’t leave the building. Period. I sweat, I shake, I get tunnel fucking vision. I feel sick. Sometimes I am sick. I’m completely debilitated by it. I’ve had regular therapy. Regression therapy. You name it, I’ve given it a go.”
