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Until he got to the aching bite mark on my shoulder—a place he repeatedly ravaged over the course of his rut.
That, I did not enjoy in the slightest.
“Stop wriggling.” The man found my instant temper cute, chuckling as he did as he pleased despite my obvious unspoken protest.
Unsure what impulse drove me, I covered the wound with my hand and found a warning thrum escape me before I might even reason why. “Leave it alone. I like it the way it is!”
The discomfort of the unkempt wound was welcome. Should I let him have his way, his medicines would ruin what belonged where it was.
I wanted a mark to remain, to be able to trace my fingers over the scar and have it as mine.
It was mine.
My fingertips already memorized each indentation, tracing with pure delight over the shape his teeth left in me.
“You want my mark to remain on you?” As if understanding dawned, his brows drew up, and his lips curled into a deviously pleased smirk. “Should you do this, it will be a sensation when the others see it.”
Just as my daughter was in my womb, that savage mark should stay on my shoulder. It was my right to have it. I earned it.
The irrationality of my need to keep so ugly a thing made me wonder if estrous had not truly ended. Or, was this drive purely related to pregnancy?
Or was I overly sentimental, wanting to preserve the memory of our ultimate joining right there on my skin—a testament to the unfolding of my life?
“It will be covered by clothing. Who would see it?” While I thought over the motivation, the strangeness of what I was demanding, a thrilled male began pressing kisses along my jaw.
Everyone will see it, the look in his eyes claimed when he pulled back, fully smug. New dresses would be made that left my shoulder on display—of that, I had no doubt.
I would be walking around with my belly full of a growing child and my skin scarred by the man who helped prepare my womb.
The father of my baby.
Through a city that was unsafe.
My answering, pleased hum to have my way dried up with that one, terrible thought.
A chilling reminder that these peaceful moments hidden in his rooms couldn’t last.
My playfulness gone, my blood cooled to ice, and I went stiff in his arms.
Noting my sudden apprehension, Cyderial demanded an explanation. “What’s wrong?”
Frightened, my hand went to my belly, to the exact place where I knew she nestled in to grow. Already, I loved her more than I could say and judged myself a villain for bringing her into the world as it was.
For knowing what would happen to her.
Paralyzed with guilt, the show of emotions on my face ran from terror to tragedy. “She is safe right now, growing under my hearts. But once she’s born, my baby will be vulnerable.” Trying to find the words, all I could manage was, “The world doesn’t deserve her… and it makes me sad.”
My mate had taken such good care of me, even if he was highhanded and a very real bully, but this was not something he could soothe.
Cyderial, the most feared and powerful hybrid male in the city, could not snap his fingers and fix this.
Yet the look on his face said otherwise. Determined, he laid me back on fresh bedding, pulling fluffy covers up under my chin. “Recover, rest. Let me handle the world.”
“Okay.” What else was I supposed to say? What could I possibly do, when I was suddenly so tired I could hardly keep my eyes open?
Cyderial pulled the blankets higher, tucking me in, moving pillows here or there so I might know ultimate comfort. And then he sat at my side, stroking my hair while I blinked tired eyes up at the father of my child.
He worked his magic over me, stealing away my worries while humming some sort of lullaby. A lulling drum that made me yawn.
