"I want to." I held his gaze, steady and sure. "Let me take care of you for once, Oliver. You spend all your time taking care of everyone else." Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or something softer. He looked down at the tea in his hands, and I saw his shoulders drop slightly. Surrendering.
"Okay," he said quietly. "Thank you." I made him a sandwich, nothing fancy, just turkey and cheese with some of the tomatoes I'd brought from my garden, and carried it back to the study. He'd moved to the worn leather couch against the wall, tea cradled in his hands, the paperwork temporarily abandoned.
"Eat," I said, settling beside him and handing over the plate. He did, taking small bites at first, then bigger ones as his body remembered it was hungry. I watched him in comfortable silence, letting him focus on the food, not pushing for conversation. When the sandwich was gone and the tea was half-finished, Oliver finally spoke.
"It's the restraining order paperwork," he said, staring at the mug in his hands. "And the harassment case. And property records for Trinity's family that might be relevant to the challenge threat." He shook his head. "Sheriff Morrison has beenhelpful, but there's so much documentation to sort through. I want to make sure we're prepared for anything she might try."
Trinity. Of course it was Trinity.
"You can't solve everything by yourself," I said gently. "That's what pack is for."
"I'm the pack alpha." The words came out tired, heavy. "It's my job to protect everyone. To handle the hard things so they don't have to."
"And who protects you?" I asked with a soft voice, shifting close to him.
He looked up at me then, something vulnerable in his blue eyes. "What?"
"You take care of Garrett and Levi and Micah. You take care of me. But who takes care of Oliver?" I shifted closer, letting my knee press against his thigh. "Who makes sure you're okay?"
"I don't need—" He started but I cut him off. It was my turn to be the one to comfort him, instead of him comforting me.
"Yes, you do." I took the mug from his hands and set it on the side table, then turned to face him fully. "You're not a machine, Oliver. You're allowed to be tired. You're allowed to struggle. You're allowed to lean on other people sometimes."
"I—" He stopped, jaw working, and I saw the moment his composure cracked. Just a little. Just enough to let me glimpse the exhaustion underneath. "I don't know how to do that."
"Then let me teach you." I reached for him, cupping his face in my hands, and his eyes fell closed. He leaned into my touch like a man starving for contact, for comfort, for someone to hold him together for once instead of the other way around. "You don't have to be strong all the time," I murmured. "Not with me."
"Daphne..." My name was a broken thing on his lips, somewhere between a prayer and a plea.
"I'm here," I said. "I've got you." Something in him shattered. He kissed me like a drowning man gasping for air—desperateand deep and nothing like the controlled, careful Oliver I was used to. His hands came up to grip my waist, pulling me toward him, and I went willingly, swinging my leg over to straddle his lap on the leather couch.
"Daphne," he gasped against my mouth. "I've been trying so hard—to be patient—to give you space?—"
"I don't want space." I kissed him again, harder. "I want you." His control unraveled like a thread pulled loose. His hands slid up my back, pulling me flush against him, and I could feel everything—the heat of his body, the racing of his heart, the hard evidence of his want pressing against me through our clothes. He kissed down my jaw, my neck, the hollow of my throat, murmuring words against my skin that I could barely hear.
"So beautiful," he breathed. "So perfect. I don't deserve?—"
"Yes, you do." I pulled back just enough to look at him, to make sure he was seeing me. "You deserve everything, Oliver. You deserve to be wanted. You deserve to be taken care of. You deserve this." His eyes were bright, almost glassy, and I realized with a start that he was close to tears. This strong, steady man who held everyone else together—he was falling apart in my arms, and somehow that made me love him even more.
"I love you," I said, because he needed to hear it. "I love you, Oliver." "I love you too." The words cracked in his throat.
"God, Daphne, I love you so much it terrifies me." I kissed him again, softer this time, trying to pour everything I felt into the press of my lips against his. He responded in kind, his hands gentling on my body, moving from desperate gripping to reverent exploration.
"Let me," he murmured against my mouth. "Let me worship you."
"Yes," I breathed, and that single word undid him completely. Oliver's hands found the hem of my shirt, fingers trembling slightly as he pulled it over my head. The cool airof the study hit my skin, but I barely felt it—not when he was looking at me like that, like I was something sacred, something precious beyond measure.
"Beautiful," he whispered, tracing the line of my collarbone with his fingertips. "Every inch of you." He unclasped my bra with careful hands, letting it fall away, and then just looked at me. The intensity of his gaze made heat pool low in my belly, made me want to squirm, but I held still, letting him take his fill.
"Oliver," I breathed, reaching for him. "Please." He pulled his own shirt over his head, and I ran my hands across his chest—broad shoulders, lean muscle He was beautiful, distinguished, and when I told him so, a flush crept up his neck.
I leaned in to press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "You're beautiful." His hands tangled in my hair, tilting my head back so he could kiss me again—deep and thorough, his tongue sliding against mine in a rhythm that made my hips move of their own accord, grinding down against the hardness beneath me. Oliver groaned into my mouth, his hands dropping to grip my hips, guiding my movements. The friction was delicious, sparks of pleasure shooting through me with every roll of my hips against him.
"Need more," I gasped. "Need to feel you." He lifted me then, laying me back on the leather couch and hovering over me. His mouth traced a burning path down my body—between my breasts, pausing to draw one nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the sensitive peak until I was gasping and arching into him.
"So responsive," he murmured against my skin, moving to give the other breast the same attention. "I could spend hours learning every single thing that makes you feel good." His mouth continued its journey south—across my stomach, pausing to swirl his tongue around my navel in a way that made me gasp and arch off the cushions. His fingers hooked in the waistbandof my pants, and he looked up at me, asking permission with his eyes. I nodded frantically, lifting my hips to help him strip away the barriers between us. When I was bare before him, Oliver sat back on his heels and just looked. His gaze traveled over every inch of me, reverent and hungry all at once, and I felt my cheeks flush under the scrutiny.
"Beautiful," he said, his voice rough with want. "You're absolutely beautiful.." Then he lowered his mouth to me, and I forgot how to think. He started slow—agonizingly, torturously slow—his tongue tracing patterns that seemed designed to drive me out of my mind. Each lick, each gentle suck, was precise and deliberate, building sensation layer upon layer until I was writhing beneath him.
