Page 55 of Brock’s Mate

Or would she? He couldn’t forget what she’d said about having kids. She wanted a family, someday. Could he possibly be the one to give that to her? Would she ever trust him enough to want to stay?

He stared out into the night, but no answers came to him. Only memories—her scent, her touch, the fever of her kisses, her exploding around him in an orgasm.

He was hers. He’d known it from the minute her naked skin touched his. No, longer. Maybe even since seeing that first photo of her wolf.

It had only been a couple of hours since they’d been together, and he craved her like a drug.

Not just her body, but her fucking attitude. Her smart mouth. The way she made him laugh.

The way she was whole, unto herself, even with everything she’d gone through. He admired that. Envied it.

He’d never been able to hold onto the boundaries of who he was. Too much time spent in other people’s heads.

The water shut off, and a couple of minutes later he heard her soft steps behind him on the carpet. Her scent filled him and he wanted to turn around and wrap himself in her, bury his face in her hair and let her warmth surround him.

But he didn’t. He just stood there with his drink, every muscle tense, wishing he was someone other than who he was.

Then her hand was resting on his back, right where someone had clawed him. Brandon? Jered? Didn’t matter.

Her touch took some of the sting out of the wound, and warmth spread through him. His muscles relaxed, and the pain receded. He let out a deep breath.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Sure. All the time.”

Her hand moved gently, touching his wounds with feather-light caresses. The warmth spread further.

“Liar,” she whispered. He wanted to deny it, but he was too fucking tired. She added, “I’m going to bed. Are you coming?”

Get in bed next to her? He’d never get through the night, wanting her the way he did. And he sure as fuck didn’t want her to feel obligated to do—well, anything.

“You can have the bed,” he said. “I’ll take the couch.”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

He turned around then, and she let her hand slide around to his chest, still touching him. She was wearing nothing but one of his t-shirts, and her hair was damp from the shower, sticking up in defiant spikes. But her eyes were surprisingly uncertain.

He said, “I didn’t even ask if you’re okay.”

She shrugged, the way she did when she was deflecting sympathy or concern. “Obviously I am. Nothing happened to me.”

“We were in a battle. You had to shoot people.”

“Wasn’t the first time.”

Fuck. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

She looked up at him, giving a little shake of her head. “You’re not responsible for what happened to me in the past. Or what I do. Or what other people do to me.”

He gave a little snort. “Didn’t I ever tell you? I’m fucking responsible for everything.”

“You need to get over that shit.”

That made him laugh, which made his ribs stab him with pain. “Ow,” he said. “Don’t make me laugh.”

To his surprise, she ducked her head and dropped a light kiss on his wounded ribs. “Come to bed,” she said again. “Stop trying to figure everything out. Whatever the right thing is, you don’t have to do it tonight. Just rest.”

He felt something inside him unclench. He hadn’t rested, really rested, in so long. There was always something he felt like he should be doing. Always something he was avoiding. Guilt. Pain. The disappointment of other people.