Page 12 of His Beast

“You forget that I can feel you. Talk to me.”

“I can feel you too,” I snap, harsher than I intend to while trying to change the subject. Why do I have to talk about the things that I feel when he’s said nothing about the anger I was engulfed in earlier before Alec’s call. “Why were you so angry?”

“Because Markus insulted my mate and then threatened to go back on our deal.”

“He didn’t answer my call, so I left a voice message. That’s how he knew I was inquiring about your debt.”

“He entered the ring like an idiot. I broke his nose.”

“Alec doesn’t like me being with you. He says I can do better.”

“You can. You should’ve.”

“But there isn’t ‘better’ for me, Zee.” I practically whine. “You’re who I want. And finding out that Alec is pregnant…I grew envious.”

“Why?”

Taking a deep breath, I tilt my head back against the cupboards, closing my eyes. Up until a few months ago, I was pretty sure I knew my future. A big house with two nests, alone, with the books I wrote. I was going to grow old here, maybe get a dog or a cat in a few years, and Alec would find my body when I finally died because I refused to give up everything I worked for. I didn’t do signings or events because if it got out that an Omega was an author, I would get into a lot of trouble. I was an enigma of sorts, but anyone with two brain cells to rub together could figure out that ‘Q. Casey’ was me. That was my future, I wouldn’t —or couldn’t—entertain anything else. Until Zayn Shepherd.

“My future was set in stone until it wasn’t,” I finally mumble, opening my eyes and tilting my gaze down to look at him. “Now it’s a possibility to have a similar life, but until we figure out what’s going on with your debt, I realized this heat would serve no purpose, just like the ones before it. And for some reason I can’t explain, that hurts.”

Moving my hands over my abdomen, I place them over my empty womb with the realization that the idea affects me a lot more than I thought it would. I don’t realized my scent has soured until Zayn makes a deep soothing rumble in his chest. Leaning forward, he nuzzles into my neck, meeting my pheromones with his in an attempt to comfort me.

“If we start looking for reasons to not have a child, we will always find them. We should look for reasons to try, and I believe the best reason is because we want to. Because we love each other and we want to share that with any child we may bring into this world. There is no guarantee that it’ll happen with the first heat, and we can attempt it again at next one. But I don’t see why we can’t try this time.”

I don’t need our bond to sense his sincerity, but I can also sense how much he loves me and how ecstatic he is that I want this too. I smile at him and he grins, leaning down to pull my shirt up to place a kiss over my womb. He then proceeded to blow the wettest raspberry known to man against my skin.

“The actual fuck!?” I exclaim, laughing as I push him away before hoping off the counter in a fit of giggles. “Go sit down while I finish dinner, weirdo.”

Zayn’s laughter echo through our kitchen, a sound I could listen to for eternity.

Zayn

The last time I was nervous before a fight, I was sixteen. It was my first fight, and I remember thinking that my heart was beating so fast it was going to launch itself into my throat and suffocate me. I was still a kid, so the Alpha I was up against seemed so huge and big to me that I was pretty sure he was going to kill me, and it was going to hurt like hell. When I expressed my worries, I hadn’t expected Markus to hit me, his fist colliding with the side of my face so hard that it broke my jaw. I’ve had many broken bones since then, but I’ll never forget the first one.

“There,” he’d said triumphantly, looking me dead in the eye with a sickly grin on his face. “Now you’ve been hit. Nothin’ to it. Get out there, man up, and win this.”

He was right. I wasn’t afraid of being hit again because I knew what it felt like; my brain had me overthinking the whole thing, and I already knew what it felt like to break something. I entered that fight with a broken jaw and came out a winner.

After the fight, Quinn and I have a plan to confront Markus about the debt, armed with a lawyer Quinn had already contacted in case Markus refuse to tell us anything but, my body feels tight and on edge. I can’t stop wiping my palms on my thighs while my heart threatens to suffocate me once more. Sitting on the floor of the locker room, I close my eyes while Quinn runs a brush through my tangles, trying to reign in my nerves as he separates my hair for braiding. It’s a routine we started at home, our evenings ending with him braiding my hair while we watch television before climbing into bed, sometimes making love before we fall asleep wrapped up in each other. I never thought I’d enjoy being taken care of, but through our bond I can feel the satisfaction and pride radiating from Quinn as he cooks for us, washes our laundry, and braided my hair, as if it brings him immense pleasure to do so. Sometimes he’ll even run the towels through the dryer while I’m in the shower so they’ll be nice and warm when I get out. He started packing my lunches for the gym as well, and I’ll often catch him looking into new recipes that suit my dietary needs, changing how he cooks and eats to match me. He takes care of me because he wants to, because he get satisfaction from doing so, not because I’m an obligation or an investment. It reminds me far too often how Markus provided the bare minimum to keep me alive to keep fighting for him.

“Hands.”

His soft voice is loud in the empty room, startling me slightly as I rotate around, confused. In his hand, he holds the spool of elastic bandages, waiting for me to give him my hands. Stunned, I give him my right palm and he begins to wrap the gauze around my wrist, ensuring the anchor is firmly placed over my thumb. He wraps it around my wrist three times before wrapping around my thumb and wrist once more before doing my knuckles, under my wrist, and then between my fingers like one would for MMA fighting. Once done, he reaches for my other hand and repeates the process, ensuring the tape is smooth against my skin and doesn’t wrinkle to create friction and discomfort.

“Where did you learn to do this?” I ask, amazed.

“Online. Been watching videos.”

Dazed, I watch him finish with my left hand with the expertise of someone who knows what he’s doing. Suddenly it occurred to me that in the days leading up to my fight, Quinn had been practicing on himself so he could wrap my hands. Jesus Christ, I love this Omega. I’m about to tell him as such, my eyes lifting to his face when I notice for the first time his complexion seems off. He looks a little pale, but his cheeks hold a slight rose tinge to them and his breathing is labored.

“Bee?”

I learn forward, brushing my fingers against his skin and I’m startled to find his skin is burning hot to the touch. Worry blossoms in my chest as I scramble off the floor, grabbing a water from the small fridge in the corner. Pressing the bottle against the back of the neck, I sniff around him but can’t detect anything past the pheromone suppressors he took earlier, and I growl in frustration. Omegas aren’t allowed at the fights, often seen as a distraction to the fighters, and can potentially cause problems. He’d assured me he would wait in the locker room, or the car until the fight was over, but now I’m wondering if he should’ve stayed home if he isn’t feeling well.

“I’m fine.” He gives me a weak smile. “Just a cold. I couldn’t miss your fight. We’ll get some hot and sour soup on the way home, and I’ll sweat it out in no time. I normally get sick around book launches, the hazards of the stress and late nights I put into getting the book out. This is normal.”

“That was a week ago,” I counter, brows furrowed.