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He shakes his head, holding my burning body against his as he rises to his feet, pulling me close like I’m precious.
“No, you’re not dead,” he says clearly. “You’re my mate.”
31
The Water's Edge
Noah
As I hurl through the trees, Hetty’s tiny body in my arms, some sort of ancient instinct courses through my body. The need to protect her feels more important than anything I’ve ever had to grapple with in my life.
She doesn’t move or say anything, her face nestled against my chest and her fingers digging into my torn shirt as she breaths me in, her chest purring a steady, knowing rhythm.
There’s no mistaking what that sound is—an omega’s call—and there’s no denying who it’s for…
Me.
I don’t know how or why this is happening, but I’m certain of one thing—Hetty’s my mate.
Her call wasn’t like any I’ve heard about or witnessed from any omega. It seemed to tear through her, pulling her apart and causing her immense physical pain. It was a terrible thing to watch.
But she survived, coming out on the side of it, weary and depleted. Now, she’s drifting in and out of consciousness, her lips parted as she murmurs nonsensical words and phrases. I hear her say my name a lot and “Gran,” but everything else is gibberish. I shush her gently, pressing my lips to her forehead as I move stealthily through the trees.
I haven’t seen a single person since I set off with her, but I still feel crowded and overrun with the mottled scents surrounding us—the various alphas and omegas, and even a few betas.
Distantly, I wonder how long they’ve all been out here, and how Marcus and I didn’t notice that they’d left. Maybe Rill’s right, and I’ve had my head up my ass. I chortle under my breath and flick my eyes down to Hetty’s face, her cheeks flushed and her smooth brow beaded with sweat.
Well, if I was distracted before, I definitely am now.
I need to get her away from here. Away from their intrusion and questions. Somewhere cool, a private spot with plenty of water and food … a comfortable place for her to build a nest.
The thought of her creating a nest for me causes my blood to heat, and I move quicker, suddenly sure of where we need to go.
I knew as soon as Wyatt and I arrived here that there was water nearby. As I stare at the dark, gentle waves lapping the shore, I’m overwhelmed with a sense of rightness and relief.
It feels safe here. The air is sharp and crisp, and between the stars shining like gems on a fathomless velvet blanket and the moon, sitting bright and low, the shore is relatively well-lit.
My feet sink into the sand as I trudge along the water’s edge until I reach a tall, jagged rock jutting out onto the shore.
Peeking behind it, I see a narrow, sandy enclave that backs up to a series of smaller rocks. Delicately, I swing my legs over the side of the rock and lay Hetty’s body on the soft sand before squeezing in next to her.
As soon as our bodies meet, everything from my nerves to my muscles hardens, celebrating our closeness. Then, as her call sings above the sounds of the wind and the waves, and her earthy, sweet scent clouds the tight space, I watch her and wait.
Luckily, it’s not too long before her eyelids flutter open. She jumps when they first settle on me, but then her serious gaze settles on my face, and she relaxes, edging closer to me and turning to face me. Pressing her face into my chest, she inhales deeply.
“Noah,” she breathes, stretching out my name.
“Hetty,” I grumble in return, setting my hand between her shoulder blades, tangling my fingers with her long hair. Moving my hand to circle her narrow waist, I pull her flush with my body.
“Am I dead?” she whispers, hooking her leg over my hip and pressing against me. I bite out a curse and press her throbbing core harder against me.
“No,” I mutter, my fingers pressing into her back, kneading the soft fabric of her dress. I delve into her neck, my face exploring her soft-scented skin, my fangs grazing gently. I hoist her up, so we’re lined up perfectly, and thrust gently. “You’re not dead.”
“Dreaming?” she asks, her fingers moving over my shirt’s buttons, undoing them with a surprising amount of deftness.
I lift her skirt, my fingers moving over her legs swiftly toward her soft inner thighs. We’re both moving instinctively, as if we are following some predetermined ritual. Like we have no choice in the matter. I can’t stop touching her, and she moves slowly like she’s in a trance. Her brow is sweaty, and there are dark circles under her eyes, marking her exhaustion.
“No.” I run my fingers toward the warm, wet cleft between her thighs, covered by thin undergarments. “Not dreaming.”
