She nods without pause.
I should shut down our conversation. I should fuck a thousand women in front of her, but since I’ve always been as inquisitive as I am fucked-up, I ask, “Who are you saving yourself for?”
Her lips twitch, but not a word spills from her mouth.
I work my jaw side to side before grinding out, “Are you saving yourself for Nick?” My words are practically growled, my body announcing there’s only one answer to my question.
My head slants to the side when Megan shakes her head. I am equally pissed and relieved.
She better not be lying to me.
“Then who are you waiting for?”
Panicked by the fury slicking my words, her heart rate quickens. I see her mind race a million miles an hour before the faintest squeak parts her lips, “You.”
I take a step back certain I heard her wrong. She doesn’t speak. She’s mute. But I swear that was the word I heard.
“Me?” I confirm, my tone half-wrathful, half-hopeful.
She pauses long enough the tick in my cock extends to my jaw before nodding. She didn’t delay because she is lying. She’s terrified about my growing hesitation.
She should be. I’m torn between wanting to slit her throat and kiss the living shit out of her.
Every alpha wants to bang his chest and claim his prize when he is chosen as the cream of the crop. I am no different. I want to devour her until she is dripping with cum and blood. I want to throw her against the wall and fuck her until every grunt she releases sounds like howls of pain. But I can’t.
I’ve only known her a few short weeks. I can’t put her above my father. She is a woman. She will never outrank a standard man, let alone one as powerful as my father.
The gleam brightening Megan’s eyes dulls when I say, “Close your legs and get under the covers.”
Tears well in her eyes as she scampers up the bed, but she remains as quiet as a church mouse. She’s a good girl like that. She does as she’s told even if it kills her.
Because she is so tiny, the duvet hides her seductive curves within seconds. It doesn’t douse the fire roaring in my gut, but it stops stacking it with additional wood.
After dumping the DNA-riddled shirt into the lit fireplace at the side of our suite, I return to my side of the bed. My hands itch to return Megan to my side, but a new voice—one I’m certain I’ve never heard before—stops me.
It is the voice of reason.
seventeen
MEGAN
Iwake up smothered by Dexter. His pulse is as frantic as it was last night when he brought himself to ecstasy, and his skin is misted with as much sweat. There is just one difference. The moans he is releasing now aren’t pleasurable. He sounds frightened.
“Ugh!” I grunt while nudging him with my elbow.
He stirs for a moment, his moan switching to a pained groan. I roll over, giving me a bird’s-eye view of his handsome face and rippled body. The deep groove between his brows and the vicious snarl of his lips reveal my assumptions are accurate. He is having a nightmare.
Recalling the violence Ashlee reacted with when I woke her during a nightmare, I cradle Dexter’s twitching jaw before soothing him like a mother would a child. I hum a joyful tune while running my fingers through the dark hairs furled around his temples and down his clenched jaw. It feels natural to take care of him. It feels right. He took care of me last night, so it is only right I return the favor.
Although I would have preferred our night end with Dexter pleasing me as he had pleased himself, I slept well. I don’t recall the transfer from our car to the hotel. I felt so safe curled up on Dexter’s lap like a cat being stroked by its owner, I slept like a baby. I feel the most revived I’ve ever been. I feel like a million bucks.
The pleasurable hum thrumming through my body dulls when Dexter suddenly snatches my wrist. He tears it away from his face, his hold so firm it feels like my wrist is about to snap in two.
“Oww.” I release a painful groan, wordlessly advising him he is hurting me. I like having his hands on me, but not like this. This is the touch of hate—not love.
“What was that?” Dexter growls, glancing past my shoulder with the eyes of a madman. “Who are you?” He appears to be awake, but his eyes are so lifeless, he may not be.
I hum a few more chords of the “Hush Little Baby” lullaby I was singing earlier, hoping the gentle tune will draw him from his nightmare.
