Page 18 of Bonds and Beasts

Still, that doesn't mean they want to...

That line of thinking is cut off when Easton slides his hand under my thick, wavy hair to palm the back of my neck right over my spine.

It feels like someone has put a warm compress directly over my nerves, soothing all the misfiring signals down to my shoulder blades. My eyes flutter closed automatically. I'm not sure I could open them if I tried. It's like my senses are trying to block out any unnecessary stimulation, including light.

"Good," Easton's low voice praises, and I feel the word directly in my core. Something soft and in need of care. I haven’t received praise in a long time.

A small whimper escapes between my lips, and I feel subtle movement around me. I crack my eyes open a little and find Dean mouthing something to Easton above my head.

When he catches me looking, he shrugs sheepishly. "Sorry, Sweet Girl. I've never done this, so I was checking with Easton what to do. Easton's kind of our pack expert for this. He volunteered at the hospital a lot."

I look back to Easton, whose hand is now rhythmically squeezing the back of my neck, which makes me feel like melting into a puddle on the floor of the car. I understand now why he didn't need the packet. He's done this before.

A small pang of not-quite-jealousy runs through me at the idea of this alpha, my alpha, touching other omegas. I chide myself and try to squash the feeling down. He's a kind alpha helping people in need, and he was doing it long before I came into the picture.

Easton must see some of my thoughts in my expression. I've always been told I wear my feelings on my face. He leans down so that he's whispering in my ear, "Only for you now, okay?"

I try to ignore the surge of pleasure, but I know I'm not hiding the small smile very well when I nod.

Dean gently reaches over and pries my left hand out from between my knees. He pulls it onto his lap and uses the pads of his thumbs to swipe over the center of my palm. He takes his time, sometimes rubbing the middle and sometimes pulling his fingers up so that he traces mine all the way to the tips.

The low moan that comes from me is obscene, but I'm too far gone to care. Good thing there’s a partition between the driver and the back. Between Easton and Dean, I feel like I've been submerged in a relaxing hot bath. My nerves finally feel quiet. My racing mind slows to a reasonable pace. Every sound stops grating on my soul.

For a moment it's just me in the swaying car with their hands. Then a throat clears, and my eyes slowly open again to find Bello directly across from me. His jaw is clenched, a muscle ticking. His eyes are narrowed and his brow is pulled down. His lips are a thin line.

"I need to ask you some things, if you don't mind,” he says.

A low growl rises up from Dean, and I turn to find him glaring at his pack leader. I place a hand on his shoulder, and when he meets my eyes, I shake my head. He very, very reluctantly stops growling and returns to rubbing my palm.

I nod, and Bello hands me the small pad of paper and a pen, which I balance on my knee with the one hand not occupied by Dean's ministrations.

"Adison, you are the missing heiress, right? The daughter who disappeared and inherited the estate?" Bello asks.

I wince. He's very direct, but he wants answers.

I nod.

Easton's hand pauses its work for a moment. "How did you guess that?"

Bello sighs. "Besides a very similar-looking girl in a family painting in my room, she matches Mrs. Portidge's description. Plus, the nurse acted like she'd seen a ghost when she learned your name."

"You're a regular detective," Dean deadpans.

"It's good to know all the facts," is Bello's only reply, but when his eyes meet mine they're softer, and that unnerves me more than if he'd glowered at me. His voice is gentle as he asks the next question,"How long have you been in that wing of the house?"

My lungs squeeze at the thought. I've only been out of the west wing for a few hours, and going back into that part of the house feels like dying.

Dean's forehead presses into my temple, his breath warm against my ear. I realize my scent has likely gone even more dead and rotten.

"Hey, it's okay if you want to take a break,” Dean assures me. “You don't have to answer anything you don't want to."

I breathe slowly in through my nose and out again before shaking my head and writing on my pad, Since my last birthday.

"When's your birthday, Sweet Girl?" Dean asks.

"October 13," I write.

Easton sucks in a sharp breath. Dean's chest rumbles before a purr comes tumbling out. Bello looks murderous.