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“You know,” I rumble quietly, doing my best not to startle her. “The doctor said you’re touch-starved.”
Her voice is small and ragged. “I don’t really know what that means.”
What sort of omega doesn’t know what touch starvation is? Worried, I hold her a bit closer and explain, “I’m not an expert like Spencer, but touch-starved omegas can get sick. Your hormones and nervous systems are out of whack. Basically, you need affection. Hugs, cuddles, back rubs. Anything that feels good.”
She curls down, the edges of her scent burning into the sweet darkness that makes my insides ache. “I guess that makes sense. I’ve always had issues with my perfume. And I don’t know if anyone else has ever hugged me before.”
My stomach caves in on itself. No one has ever hugged her? No one?
No wonder she trembles and perfumes when I run my fingers through her hair.
I can tell she’s still uncertain, though. It probably feels scary to let a strange alpha tend to her like this, but I can’t stop.
My mind reels, trying to come up with some way for her to get comfortable accepting this from me. “You know,” I start slowly. “This doesn’t have to mean anything. I’m an alpha; you’re an omega. You’re touch-starved. If you want me to help, it can be as simple as that.”
Big green eyes blink up at me, warm with gratitude and shot with slivers of fear. “Are you sure?”
For an omega who had me by the hair a few hours ago, steering my face between her thighs, she’s a shy little thing. I smile, even though my heart feels like it’s cracking. “Very sure.”
When I brush my lips along her forehead, she perfumes hard, her spine snapping straight. I run my hand along it, hoping my warmth will chase the chills away.
Before she can feel embarrassed, I hum, “Mm, manamea. Reminds me how perfect your slick tastes.”
She’s still mortified, ducking her face against my pec. “What does that word mean?” she whispers. “Y-you said it earlier, too.”
The way her voice wavers makes it seem like she might think it’s an insult of some sort. Or a taunt. I hitch her higher up my body and scent-mark her crown.
Fuck it—if I’m the one treating her touch starvation, I’m going to be thorough.
“It means sweetheart,” I admit. “It’s a Samoan word. My mother used it when I was little.”
“She’s Samoan?” she asks.
I nod, unable to contain my wistful sigh. “Yeah, she was.”
She hears what I don’t say, squeezing me with her thin arms. “I’m sorry.”
I bury my face into her hair and inhale her. It’s insane how much it helps the ache in my chest—how absolutely right it feels to hold her this way.
“It was a while ago. Right around the time we formed our pack. She had been sick for a long time. I’m glad she isn’t suffering anymore.”
I’m also glad Serena can’t see the way I grimace before I go on, asking, “What about you, manamea? Where are your parents?”
Her miraculous perfume somehow gets sweeter, even when she’s upset. That might make it hard for other alphas to parse her feelings, but I’m finding I can already tell the difference between arousal and distress based on how it makes me feel.
This is definitely distress. My nose itches while my insides flip.
Which makes sense as she tucks her face lower and murmurs, “My parents… I think I should probably wait and tell you all at the same time. It’s not—it’s not a nice story.”
Something in my brain snags and tears. My purr follows suit, catching when I drag in a gasp. “Did they?—”
She cuts me off, whispering, “Please, Jo.”
The deep ripeness of shame touches her coconut creaminess again. Like it’s her fault that her parents harmed her?
But I hate how much sense that makes. She’s clearly touch-starved as hell. Underfed. And whoever she tried to get away from was keeping her locked inside.
I purr louder to cover a growl, leveraging both of us upright. Those big green eyes blink at me, her pretty face bemused as I pull her back into my lap and reach for the plate on her nightstand.
