Page 9 of Charged By the Razorbacks

Because it mattered.

“You scent-baited us,” he continued, voice tightening despite himself. “Doubled back. Broke your trail so that we lost you.”

Her brows lifted. “And yet, here you are.”

Not the fucking point. Aleksy’s hands stilled for half a second before he forced them to move again, cleaning the wound with more care than his tone suggested.

“You got hurt.”

She went still.

Then—her eyes narrowed.

“Why are you angry?” she demanded. “I’m the one who’s injured.”

Aleksy’s control snapped. Not fully. Not dangerously. Never would he lose control and put their mate at risk. But it was enough.

“I am pissed because you got hurt,” he shot back, voice sharp, cutting through the space between them. “Because you were out here alone when we could have been with you—where we fucking belong—helping you, and instead we were chasing ghosts while you bled.”

Tamsin went completely still. The fight drained out of her posture in a way that didn’t sit right. Her eyes softened. Just a fraction then filled.

Aleksy froze.

“Don’t—” he started.

Too late. Her lashes lowered, breath hitching slightly as the tears gathered—

“No,” he said, sharper now. “No, that’s not fair.”

Because it wasn’t.

She didn’t get to—he stepped closer without thinking, hands stilling against her side as his focus snapped from the wound to her face.

“You don’t get to cry,” he said, frustration bleeding into something else entirely now. “You don’t get to do that after—”

Her bottom lip trembled. That was it. That broke him.

“Don’t,” he said again, softer now, rougher, the edge gone from his voice and replaced with something that sat deeper, heavier. “Don’t do that.”

Because he couldn’t—didn’t know how to—handle that.

His hand lifted without thinking, fingers brushing her jaw, then her cheek, grounding, steadying—

“Please don’t cry,” he said quietly.

Not a command or a play for control, just a request—a plea from him to her. He pulled her into him before she could respond, arms wrapping around her without hesitation, careful of her injury but not distant, not restrained.

Holding her against him, his head resting on hers. Because that felt—right. Not just right, but necessary.

Her face pressed into his chest, her body softening just enough that he felt it.

And then—

“You were mean.”

Aleksy blinked. “What?”

She pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes still suspiciously bright—but her mouth? Pouting.