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Nico is an eccentric young man, the Rover’s Gamma. He’s not as strong and strategic as Mark, nor as cunning and resilient as Amara, but the boy is brilliant. Clumsy, awkward, and a little overeager, but brilliant nonetheless.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I say.
She does not reply, instead turning her attention toward the window beside me. “Perhaps your new guest just needs a bit of time to adapt,” she says at last, her words slow and calculated. “Maybe, just maybe, that girl had her whole world turned upside down far more than you did. She’s been ripped away from her home, her family, her pack, from everything she’s ever known. She’s in a new land surrounded by a foreign pack and a brooding Alpha, and I daresay we haven’t made the best first impression.”
She’s not wrong. I rub the back of my neck, massaging the tensed muscles as I say, “I told Mark to behave. I’m going to kick his ass for this.”
“Let me handle my mate,” Amara coos, the ghost of a smile now dancing over her lips. Her patience and tenderness toward Mark will never cease to amaze me. “You worry about your own.”
That’s the problem— I am worried. But I just grunt in agreement, glancing back at the fireplace.
“Mark is just trying to look after you, you know. We all trust you have your reasons for what you did, but you have to understand that he doesn’t see you just as his Alpha. None of us do. You’re family, and if something were to happen to you...”
“I know,” I say softly, a hint of remorse seeping into my tone. She seems to note it with a curt nod before moving on.
“Mark will get over it. We all will, so just give the girl some time. She’ll warm up to you when she’s ready.” She makes her way toward the door, glancing over her shoulder before leaving. “You had a long journey, and it’s been a difficult day. Get some beauty sleep, my king. You look like shit.”
I chuckle as she winks before vanishing into the hall. “Lovely speaking with you, Amara, as usual,” I mumble, but she’s already closed the door behind her.
The room is quiet once more, save for the sound of the crackling fire and footsteps on the hardwood floor as I resume my pacing. Deep within me, my wolf lets out a growl, frustrated and restless. I refuse to acknowledge its stubborn urge, this persistent desire to protect this girl I barely even know. I pause in my pacing by the side of the bed, running a hand over my face. I need to calm down, to think. I can feel the tension in my muscles, the knot in my stomach. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to clear my mind as I sit on the edge of my bed.
I’ll deal with this tomorrow.
With a reluctant sigh, I take off my shirt and get ready for bed, deciding that Amara was right. Some sleep will do me good, and my problems will still be here tomorrow. Perhaps I’ll have better luck facing them after some rest.
But then something gnaws at the back of my mind, and a sudden sound cuts through the night like the bow of a ship slicing through dark waters. In a heartbeat, I’m on my feet, all thoughts of sleep forgotten. Any trace of logic or self-control slips out the window as I realize what the noise is.
Somewhere in the house, that shy, silent girl with soulful eyes is crying out in pain.
Chapter Eleven
I wake up back in the present, panting and gasping for air. I’m lying in my room in the villa, drenched in sweat, my heart racing, and my body trembling. I lie there in the dark, my mind replaying the nightmare over and over again. I can still taste the metallic tinge of blood lingering on my lips; I can still feel the suffocating weight of helplessness as Oscar ripped through me.
But I’m not alone.
Even after jolting awake, it takes me a few minutes to come to my senses, my eyes wide but unseeing. It’s like I’m coming gradually back into my body, surfacing from the depths of my nightmare. Someone is holding me, running a hand through my hair in a gentle caress.
Tristan is on the bed, holding me firmly as the nightmare unfurls its claws from around my mind. At some point, I tossed the covers off the bed, and my feet got tangled in the sheets. I’m wearing nothing but an oversized shirt Lucy must have left for me, and I’m trembling, curled up against Tristan as if he can physically shield me from the memories.
He must have realized I’m awake, my sobs catching in my throat and turning into panting breaths. He pulls away from me to examine my face, surveying my features and scanning me for further signs of pain or distress.
Even in the darkness of the room, I can make out the golden flecks in his eyes, framed by his furrowed brow. He’s not wearing a shirt, and I realize with a start that I’ve unconsciously dug my fingers into his shoulder, my nails leaving rosy streaks across his skin. He barely seems to notice.
He’s even leaner than he appeared with his clothes on, muscles carved into every inch of his torso. But in spite of his size, there’s nothing bulky about him; he’s elegant in a wild, natural sort of way, like waves in a storm or flickering flames dancing in a fire.
He looks more dreamlike than my nightmare. Oscar’s claws felt real, familiar, and feral. Tristan feels far less present somehow, solid but intangible at the same time. I reach out slowly, and his eyes dart to my hand as my fingertips brush against his cheek. He looks back at me, a hint of curiosity sparking in his amber eyes.
‘This is real,’ I tell myself, looking at him. Tristan is real. Oscar and his friends are not. It was just a bad dream. Just a bad memory. I’m here, in this place, on this night... with this man.
He says nothing; he asks no questions, whispers no sweet nothings, does not chastise me or berate me. He just sits there, wrapped around me like a living shield, waiting for me to come down and get ahold of myself.
I trace my fingers down the curve of his cheekbones, trailing down to the edge of his angular jaw. He has me cradled in his arms, one hand supporting the back of my head and the other pressed against the small of my back. My bare legs are draped over his lap, and he watches me wordlessly as I soak him in, telling myself over and over again that this is real.
My heart is still thundering in my chest, but it’s no longer because of fear. I should be terrified.
I’ve felt the hardness and anger of men firsthand, but as I peer up at Tristan, there is nothing even remotely hateful in him.
I brush my fingers down his neck, over his Adam’s apple, and down along his collarbone. I watch the muscles along his torse tighten beneath his caramel skin as I trail my hand softly across his chest with a feathery touch. My fingers glide between his pecs, and a chill runs through him, something new flashing in his warm eyes. I pull my hand away suddenly, clutching it against my chest and going rigid in his arms. He sucks in a sharp breath, and I’m worried that I’ve done something wrong, frightened that I’ve somehow angered him once more.
