29 - Nothing Like Them

I wake feeling satiated and warm and comfortable— a new, strange sensation. And one I'd quite like to bask in. My head is all light and airy with sleep, and for a while I simply lie there and savour the peace and the tapping of raindrops on the window. Time slides away without sticking.

Rumpled bed sheets cling to my form and there are arms wrapped loosely around my torso. Rowan. The sheets smell of musk and cinnamon and other pleasant things— a scent I recognise as his.

He's pressed up against me and, as the fog of sleep sharpens to clarity, I realise he's naked. And so am I. A blissful shudder slides down my spine as I recall last night and our tentative haven, as I feel him in his entirety melted against me. I needed him like oxygen, last night, as though I'd been drowning and he reached down and pulled me to the surface. It was a desire I'd never felt before; one that stole my breath and tugged those desperate noises from my throat and sent unease scattering.

But it's not long before reality surges forwards. I'm naked in a werewolf's bed and he's got me pinned. Desperately, I try and rationalise. Try and breathe through the discomfort lancing liquid fire through my veins. I've never woken with someone before. I've never done the things I did last night before. This is what is supposed to happen. I'm supposed to lie in his arms and like it.

I will not fall into a Haze. I won't. I'm the one in control. I'm not in danger.

I do not descend, mercifully, but discomfort lurks. It's all so new — this warmth and bliss — and I'm not entirely sure what to make of it. Last night, I didn't fall— but I don't want to push my luck until something snaps.

So I take a deep breath and recall what he told me days ago, out in that pitiful training circle before Lachlan pinned me.

Tap tap tap.

Without a word, without a reprimand or groan of complaint, Rowan stirs and releases me and shuffles back, giving me some space.

I turn to face him, not wanting this shade of peace to end just yet, and I find him blinking blearily and smiling at me. Not annoyed at my tapping out. Huh.

"Morning," he greets with a lazy stretch. His hair is all tousled with springy curls in a way that has some part of me longing to run my fingers through it. The sheets are gathered at his hips and I find my eyes wandering off on a little exploration of his lithe form, appreciative and eager. A wave of his scent floods my nose; a pleasant aroma that tugs at my straying thoughts.

"Why do my clothes smell like you?" I blurt out.

He frowns, peering at me through a sleepy chocolate gaze as he melts against the sheets. Clearly, whatever it is he thought I was going to say, that wasn't it. "Come again?"

"The whole room smells like you— it always has."

"Oh, uh... Well, this used to be my room," he admits, offering me a tentative little smile, though, as I watch, it takes on an almost sad quality. "Back when my parents were alpha and luna. And when they died, and their power passed to me, I had to take their room. Tradition, and all. I wanted to feel close to them, so I didn't mind. I had this room kept exactly as it was— even left some of my clothes in here, for old time's sake."

I frown a little, thinking of the way I'd been drawn to the comfort of this room and decided to call it my own, back when living with werewolves seemed like a horrible, foolish idea. "That's a weird tradition. You're sleeping in your parents' bed?"

He narrows his eyes at me, even as a smile tugs at his lips. "I redecorated, obviously. I didn't want to feel that close to them."

I snort tiredly, rolling onto my back and gazing up at the ceiling.

"What do I smell like, then?" he asks. "I'm curious."

"You smell like cinnamon. Warm and... and comforting, I guess," I tell him, keeping my gaze firmly locked upwards even as I feel the heat of his attention on my face. "There's something... musky about it, too."

He hums, considering. "Do you like it?" he asks, his voice muffled. When I glance at him to figure out why, I find he has buried his nose into the crook of his arm, as though to double-check, and yet he peers at me still, his gaze imploring and hopeful.

"Maybe," I allow. Our exchange feels illicit and drowsy, as though a charge lurks beneath the surface. And I realise I don't mind it. "Let me guess— you're getting notes of silver."

He laughs, shuffling a little closer and letting his arm fall down to his side. "I told you before, it's your knives that smell like silver. It lingers on your skin and, usually, that would be enough to ward werewolves away. But there's something beneath it. You smell like the woods after a rainstorm. It's earthy and peaceful and perfect."

A pleasant shiver slides down my spine. I stare at him and I feel as though I've achieved some higher level of inner peace, like everything is right in the world as long as we stay right here.

I don't want to ruin it, but a question rises unbidden. My knowledge of the intricacies of fated mates only involves how to exploit it, not experience it.

"Last night, did we...? I mean, are we— mated now? Is that how it works?"

A blush burns his cheeks and his eyes go wide. He chokes on air and descends into a coughing fit. "You don't know?" he manages.

In all, it seems like a definitive answer, and I feel thoroughly exposed and uncertain. "We are, then?" I ask helplessly as he catches his breath. It's too sudden, it's a leap into the dark and—

"No," Rowan says at last, recovering enough to give me a lightly reprimanding look. "A little warning, next time? I thought you knew."

I scowl at him. "Knew what? We're not exactly given a lecture on werewolf mating seasons. How am I supposed to know about this sort of thing?"

"We're not mated," he assures me, and I find myself equally relieved and disappointed at the thought— and I have to give myself a firm mental shake. "We've only known each other for a few days— even if fate draws us close, we need to know one another first. Even under different circumstances, it's bad manners to mate right away. I wouldn't have let it go that far because I know you're not ready."

I arch a brow, thinking of his desperation last night and the noises rushing from him and the way he melted beneath my advances and I think, quite confidently, he would've let me do anything.

He must see some shade of this accusation in my eyes, because he smiles wryly and says, "I would've tried not to let it go that far. You're awfully convincing when you're on top, you know."

This time, I'm the one choking on air. I give him a watery glare and he holds up his hands in surrender.

Perhaps sensing danger in my eyes, he explains, "There's different types of fated connections. The bond Beau and Morgan have is different to the one Kay and Matteo have, for example, but they're both as strong as the other. I..." He trails off, his focus flitting down my form and back up again, and his eyes flicker with an echo of heat. "I don't think the bond between us is strictly... platonic. To mate we'd have to go... well, all the way, if you know what I mean," he tells me, watching me closely to gauge my reaction. "I mean, really, we don't have to do anything. It's your choice as well as mine— and I'll only do what you're comfortable with. But, generally speaking..."

I hum and let my imagination run away from me, and my gaze slips its leash and wanders down his form once more. When I realise and rip it back to Rowan's face, a blush burning my cheeks, there's a knowing smile tugging at his lips. I narrow my eyes.

He chooses, smartly, to stay quiet. Correctly assuming any sort of taunt would earn him a place at the top of my to-maim-and-destroy list.

For a while, we lie there and let the silence between us linger, basking in the peace and quiet. Reality nudges forwards — my stomach keeps making noises and I can distantly hear voices out in the clearing — but we're both content to ignore all the reasons to get up, because we know that, when we do, we might not get another chance like this.

Ever so carefully, Rowan reaches over and takes my arm. I let him, but I send him a lost look and watch, curious, as he traces his finger along my skin with feather-light precision, following the lichtenberg figures and the runes and symbols snaking along my skin like fractures in a mirror.

"Where do they come from?" he asks softly.

I let my gaze retreat to the ceiling. "They spread every time I kill a werewolf," I mutter. "I don't know how, but it's all I've ever known. It's a rite of passage in my family. Bare skin means inexperience, and inexperience gets us killed."

"You don't like them?" he guesses.

I shrug. "I always found them a bit... pompous. They make us stand out when we should blend in. It's supposed to represent protection that's woven into our blood, that lingers on our skin to warn off those that would try and mess with us. It's like a venomous snake having bright scales, or... or if you killed Alessandro and wore his wolf skin like a cape to prove you'd bested him. That sort of thing."

"That would certainly make a statement," he allows. "But it would also traumatise a lot of people."

I stay quiet for so long that Rowan pushes himself up to gaze down at me. His expression is an open book, dripping with worry and sorrow.

"You're not like them, you know. You've got the same markings as them, but you're nothing like them. Any other hunter would've tried to kill me and my pack in that alley. You didn't. Any other hunter would've let their sister die for the greater good— which is bullshit, by the way. You've been raised on mistrust, but you're strong enough to see past their prejudice, River. You're stronger than them because you've seen both sides and you're choosing to leave all you've ever known because you've seen the truth. That's admirable. I promise you, we'll make them pay for what they did to Esme, and for what they've done to you."

I stare up at him, feeling uneven and brittle and yet, strangely enough, hopeful. Sincerity blazes in his eyes and he's proven often enough that his word is something I can put my trust in.

The moment shatters as my stomach makes a wailing cry for attention.

I break his gaze and sit up with a stretch, aware of the warmth of his close attention. I'm in desperate need of a shower, I realise. The sheets crackle with flakes of blood and my form is no better— besides, I'll have to wash away every hint of our pleasure that lurks on my skin, given the house is full of people with an uncanny sense of smell.

Though, I note with a wince, I'm sure Beau has already taken it upon himself to proclaim the scene he almost walked in on to anyone who'll listen.

Rowan must read my mind, or else recognise the intention behind my eyes. "Come on, I'll check the coast is clear," he says, getting up and rummaging through my half-packed bag lying forgotten on the floor for clothes. He finds some briefs and tosses them to me before pulling on his own pair.

And then, his arms laden with a bundle of clothes, he goes to the door and opens it. I rush to put on the briefs and join him, feeling thoroughly exposed but desperate not to let him get too far and risk any encounters on my own.

Mercifully, the hallway is empty and the house beyond seems quiet, so we're able to sneak into the bathroom opposite without issue.

Once we've showered — separately, mind — and dressed, we emerge looking a whole lot more presentable and head for the kitchen in search of the others. Ready if not entirely eager to let the problem of my family, once again, disturb whatever semblance of peace we've found.

Regardless, I muse, whatever happens, they won't bother us for much longer. I'll make sure of that. Whatever price it takes to keep Rowan and his pack safe from their fury, I'm willing to pay it.