An alpha who’s not me inhaling Jensen’s scent, breathing it into his body from when it has clung to Jensen’s skin and spun around him. Using that to find him.
When I think about it rationally, it’s an obvious solution. A good, common-sense suggestion. It’s also the most heinous, offensive, repulsive thing anyone has ever said aloud in my presence.
The sound it shakes loose is more than a growl. More than a warning. More than a suggestion that caution around me is called for. It’s a snarl, plain and simple. A wild, rampant sound accompanied by copious amounts of spittle and fingers that are curled into claws, raking my chest and legs.
Sid stamps on the brakes in fright, bringing the car to a complete stop. His eyes are wide as he looks at me, whites showing all the way around watery irises.
“I apologize,” I say, blinking through the worst of my rage. “That was uncalled for.”
Sid eyes me warily and gives a curt nod when he deems the threat to have passed. “It’s completely understandable, my lord.”
It isn’t.
It’s not understandable at all. I’m behaving like an animal when calm is called for. I’m driving around like a headless chicken, searching for Jensen, using my eyes when another sense is clearly what’s required. A highly developed sense that most people don’t have.
A sense that I possess in spades.
A sense I suppress for the safety of others.
A sense that Jensen’s safety now depends on.
The angry, white-hot panic that’s gripped me since I realized Jensen was missing slowly leaves me and something else takes its place. Warm liquid tracks down my face and spills down my body.
Certainty flows through my veins.
“Turn the car around, please,” I say quietly. “Head home. Drive as fast as you can.”
26
Alfie
“Mrs.Thompson,”Ibellowas I enter the house. “Call the stables and ask Bert to saddle Gregor. Stoke the fires, warm the house. Have the cook heat soup and make tea for the little mouse.”
Mrs. Thompson appears at my side, nodding fast and yelling orders to others as fast as I issue them to her. I look back at her when I reach the stairs. Her face is a picture. One of panic and concern. One of knowing and deep understanding. I look into all of those things and nod in answer to the question she hasn’t asked.
“I’ll be back soon,” I tell her. “It won’t take me long to find him.”
She watches silently as I tear up the stairs, not moving until I’ve disappeared from view. I’m dripping wet, boots caked in mud, but I don’t care. I cross my bedroom in a hurry, stopping only when the top drawer of my bedside table has been yankedopen to expose its contents. I rummage wildly, throwing items that aren’t what I’m looking for over my shoulder.
I stop moving when I find it.
A small silver blister pack that contains only one tablet. A pale-blue pill. Oval and slightly larger than the tablet I take after my ride every morning.
I slice the foil backing open with my thumbnail and pop the tablet into the palm of my hand. I look at it, and an old, heavy pang winds around my ribs. It’s a small thing. A single dosage. A chemical concoction that I’ve sat in this room and fantasized about taking every night for years and years. Those nights, I held the blister pack in my hand unopened, in pain, unwell, heart aching as I put it back in my drawer.
Now, I bring my hand up and toss the tablet into my mouth, swallowing it roughly without the benefit of water to ease its passage.
I’m out of my rooms and halfway downstairs by the time it’s gone down. I make my way to Jensen’s rooms without anyone stopping me or saying a word. Mrs. Thompson looks on, eyes filled with concern, lips pressed into something that resembles the tiniest of smiles.
Once inside, I close Jensen’s sitting room door and lean against it. I take stock of myself. My body, my mind. I feel the same as I always do. Bad. Foggy. Heavy. I breathe through the worst of the panic and the sickening doubt that questions whether this will even work. It takes a moment, but I push myself off the door when I’m certain I have the strength required to do so.
I walk to Jensen’s bedroom slowly, like an intruder, and come to a sudden halt when I see his bed. The pain that’s been throbbing in my chest for hours begins to throb.
A nest.
Jensen sleeps in a nest. He sleeps here in a neatly made nest. All by himself. In a puffy sphere of pillows and blankets that have been arranged just so. An orderly disorder of soft, warm items that have been positioned to provide him with comfort and security. Things he needs to feel safe while sleeping in my home. Under my roof.
My throat aches where my neck and jaw meet. He’s been here for months, close to me and needing comfort, and I’ve let him sleep alone.
