Parker hurtles to his feet and strides toward Rose. “You know what, Rose? The oath is a joke. It’s a set of rules Neurovida made up to control us, and the longer it takes you to realize that, the longer you’ll be living in ignorance.”
“How can you say that?” Rose demands. “The oath is to protect us.”
Parker’s laugh lacks its usual warmth. “And how safe have you felt these last seven months?”
“You’re unbelievable. It’s not about Neurovida, it’s about the Alphas. Respecting each other’s pasts. Protecting our memories. We took the oath together.All of us.It binds us, and you’re going to throw that away?”
Parker flings his hands out in front of him. “Throw what away?” His voice breaks. “There’s nothing left. And as soon as I have my powers back, you’re going to make sure of it.”
My back hits the wall beside their bedroom door. “I’m going to go,” I mutter, startling Rose.
Her eyes widen. “No. You stay, I’ll go,” she says, cringing as she swings her long, bare legs out of bed. “You can sort out his wound.”
I stare at her. “But I can’t touch him.”
Rose’s dark gaze snaps to Parker. “Wow, there’s something you didn’t tell her? I might die of shock.”
“Rose can let me interact with things,” Parker says. “It’s how I eat, and shower—”
“And stay alive,” she barks. “And it takes an extreme amount of mental exertion, which is why I can’t do it all the time. Maybe you should act a little more grateful.” She turns to me and says, “You can sort it out, Ella.” Her narrowed gaze slides back to Parker. “I don’t want to waste the energy.” She storms into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her.
Parker releases a heavy breath and slumps onto the edge of his bed, dragging his fingers through his hair. It’s grown in the weeks since he cut it, and the motion leaves dark blond strands sticking out at odd angles. He remains with his head in his hands, the muscles in his neck taut. After a moment, as if remembering himself, he lifts his head and his gaze flickers to me.
I swallow the lump in my throat. His lips are pressed together, tugged up at the corners into an apologetic smile. My gaze snags on the freckle above his top lip and my chest tightens. Mouths shouldn’t look like his—thought-dissolving, heart-melting, tongue-tying. One glance at that sexy smirk and my mental capacity plummets. I couldn’t string a sentence together if I tried.
I want to ask him more about Neurovida. But the words disintegrate on my tongue when I see the mattress indented under him, the weight of his body pressing into it. My stomach flutters, my heart rate spiking. I can’t believe it. I canfinallytouch him.
“Do you want to sit?” he asks, his voice rougher than before.
Cheeks on fire, I manage a small nod and move the bandages from the desk to beside him on the bed. I roll the desk chair forward and I sit, tucking my quivering hands in my lap.
I can’t bring myself to make eye contact. Not when he’s half-naked and the only time we’ve touched is in my fiery dreams.Especiallynot when hours ago I awoke from one of those dreams, discontented and wanting, my cold bed a stark contrast to his heated body pressed against mine moments before.
What would he say if he knew in those waking moments how embarrassingly often my fingers slip between my thighs, fantasizing about our tongues colliding and his hands pulling my body against his?
His words from last night fill my mind:If I could touch you, the last thing I’d be concerned about is the wound on my chest.
His eyes are glued to me, as if he’s waiting to see what I’ll do.
I nudge my chair forward, and the brush of our knees sends a burst of energy up my thigh. I suck in a sharp breath.
“Ella, it’s just me. Don’t be nervous,” he says, as if I’ve known him for years. As if we touch frequently.
I drag my gaze to his, and I’m startled by the intensity swirling in his bright amber eyes. He’s staring at me as if he can see right through me, and it doesnothingto quell my rapid heart rate or the energetic flutter in my stomach.
He starts forward and hesitates, an internal battle raging behind his eyes. Then he reaches out to take my trembling hand and presses his palm to mine.
If the graze of his knee was static electricity, the caress of his hand is lightning, jolting my heart into a frantic rhythm. His skin is warm, his palms lacking the rough calluses from my dreams.
His thumb caresses the inside of my palm, tracing a slow, endless circle that winds me tighter with each loop. I shiver. How can one touch make me feel so alive? Ten seconds in and I want his hands all over me. I need something to distract myself. To give me purpose. I’m here for a reason, aren’t I? Frozen under his stare, his thumb still drawing lazy swirls in my palm, I’m having trouble remembering.
His wound!
I tear my hand away and grab a packet from beside him, fumbling with an antiseptic wipe.Smooth.As I clean the wound, the muscles in his abdomen tighten.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
The corner of his mouth curls as he leans toward me. “Still worried about me, Ella?”
