Page 53 of The Florist and Her Alphas

“A little pain from the heat,” she admits. Her hands are folded in her lap, knuckles white. “But it’s manageable. For now.”

The heat comes in waves. I know this. I’ve studied enough field medicine to understand the cycles—the peak, the plateau, the crash before the next surge.

She’s in the lull. But it won’t last.

“We need to get you in the bath,” I say. “Before the next wave hits.”

“Okay,” she says as she steps into the tub.

The water is hot, steaming, scented with something August must have added—eucalyptus, maybe, or cedar. She sinks into it with a sigh that sounds like relief, her head tipping back against the marble, and I strip quickly, kicking my jeans into the corner, and step in behind her.

“Is the water too hot for you?”

“It’s perfect,” she says as sweat beads on her forehead.

The water rises as I sit behind her, my back against the curved end of the tub, and she settles between my legs, her back against my chest, her thighs spread. I reach for the washcloth hanging on the hook, dip it in the water, and wring it out.

“Arms,” I say softly.

She lifts them. I start with her shoulders, the cloth moving in slow, methodical circles across her skin. She’s small against me—five-two to my six-three, her head tucked under my chin, her ass pressing against my half-hard cock where it rests between her cheeks. I wash her neck. Her collarbones. The soft swell of her breasts, circling each nipple with the cloth until they pebble harder under the fabric.

She’s quiet. Breathing slowly. Her body loose against mine in a way it hasn’t been since I met her.

My hand moves down her stomach. The cloth traces the dip of her navel, the curve of her hips, and then I’m washing her thighs, one at a time, the cloth moving in long, slow strokes from knee to the junction where her leg meets her pussy.

She shifts, her hips rolling slightly, and a soft sound escapes her.

I move to her arms. Left first, washing from shoulder to wrist with the same care. Then the right.

I drop the washcloth.

Her forearm is laid bare in the water—silvery, jagged, the failed claiming bites overlapping in a brutal topography of scar tissue.

I set the cloth aside and use my hand instead. My palm finds her forearm, and I wash her slowly, tracing every ridge, every valley of scar tissue with my fingertips. Reverence. That’s the only word for what I’m feeling. Not disgust. Not pity. Something older, deeper, a protectiveness so fierce it burns behind my ribs like a live wire. She’s a warrior whether she knows it or not.

She stops breathing. I feel the sudden stillness in her chest, the way her lungs lock. Her body goes rigid against mine.

“Are you...” Her voice is thin. Scared. “Are you grossed out by them?”

The question hits me like a bullet. I press my forehead against the back of her head, close my eyes, and breathe through the rage that wants to tear out of my throat.

“No,” I say, and my voice is steadier than I expect. “You’re utterly beautiful, Liana. Sweet. And the monsters who did this to you should be punished forever. Not walking around free like they are.”

She turns her head, just enough that I can see the profile of her cheek, the gold flecks in her pale green eyes gone wide with alarm. “You’re not going to go after them, are you? Please don’t.”

I’m quiet. Because in my head, I’m already mapping the distance to Silus Thornton’s pack house upstate, picturing my rifle centered on that cold, pale face, the way his smirk would vanish in a red mist.

I’ve killed before. I know what it feels like to watch a man die because I decided he should. The difference is that this time, it’s crucial that he dies.

“If they even think of trying to make you theirs again,” I say, my voice low and flat. “I’ll have no mercy.”

She shudders. I can smell the shift in her scent, the rose blooming warmer, thicker, her body responding to the dark promise in my voice. My hand slips between her legs, under the water, and cups her pussy.

Warm. So fucking warm. Her folds are swollen, slick, and she moans as my palm presses against her. She leans back against me, her head falling onto my shoulder, her ass grinding against my cock where it’s hardening fast against the curve of her.

“Your ass feels nice,” I murmur against her ear.

Filled with an insane urge, I push my middle finger between her folds. She’s so wet my finger slides in without resistance, her pussy clenching around me, hugging my finger like it’s been waiting.