by Keri Lake
Shaking my head, I set his hand back where it was, turning my head just enough to feel his warm breath against my ear. “I’m fine.”
He releases my throwing hand to extend my non-throwing hand, smacking my palm with the back of his. “Use this arm for momentum.” Taking hold of my knife-toting hand once more, he guides a mock throw for demonstration, and I nod.
Positioned as before, he draws my hand back, and snaps it forward with enough force that the blade whirls out of my grip. The power in his arms nearly knocks me forward, but his hold at my stomach keeps me grounded against him. The blade lands off to the side of the tree.
“Again.” A nudge from behind is my cue to gather the fallen knife, and when I return to my spot, he resets my arms and legs, lifting my momentum arm a little higher than before. “More snap. Imagine that tree is the Rager that attacked you.”
The thought of that fills me with determination, only it isn’t the Rager that comes to mind, but Remus. The memory of him tying me up and whipping me until I bled. I grind my teeth, and together, we throw it again.
Another miss, but closer to the target than the last.
I throw it again. And again. Twice more. A half dozen times after that. Each miss only fueling my refusal to give up. And every time I tromp back to my position from retrieving the fallen blade, Titus is there to reposition me and guide the next attempt. He’s patient in ways that my own father never was, encouraging me to pick it up and go at it again, until half the day is gone and the sun is beating down our necks.
Out of breath and sluggish with exhaustion, I swipe up the knife again and take my position, just like the dozens of times before.
“This time,” he says in a low voice, “I want you to imagine it’s me.”
With my back to him, I frown at that. “I don’t want to.”
“The resentment is written on your face for what I did to Will. If you’re not going to take a real blade to me, then pretend.”
“I understand why you did it, Titus. It wasn’t out of malice, or hate. You had no choice.”
“I did have a choice. Your life, or his. I chose yours.” Given the outcome, his words shouldn’t send a shiver down the back of my neck, and my skin shouldn’t prickle when he lifts my arm to draw back for another throw. “Now. Imagine I’m your target.”
Gaze set on the tree trunk ahead of me, I swallow hard, then snap the blade forward.
It lands dead center in the bark.
Part of me wants to rejoice with the first success, but a bigger part of me fears the truth in it.
“If I had to choose again, nothing would’ve changed.”
“I don’t hate you.” I should, given the fact that he murdered my best friend. But I can’t.
He curls his big hand around mine where the blade is, and draws my arm back, this time raising the knife higher.
Stretching the cotton of my shirt over my breasts that hardens my nipples beneath.
A tingle spirals through me, in spite of myself, and I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to be at the mercy of his full attention. To be devoured by those golden eyes. Caressed by such strong and weathered hands.
“Focus,” he commands, as if he can hear my musings. My thighs clench with his imagined touch, but instead, he pats my leg to move it forward, urging me back into form. The scent of metal and sweat hits the back of my throat, watering my mouth, and I follow the length of his outstretched arm, noticing the sinewy muscles beneath his skin.
Perhaps it’s because I’m alone out here, having to rely on him for survival, or the fact that he’s the first man who’s ever taken me seriously enough to teach me to wield a knife, but my thoughts about him have shifted in recent days.
After what happened in the forest, the second time I found myself at the mercy of a Rager, it doesn’t take psychoanalysis to see why I’m attracted to Titus, no matter how much I try to fight it. He’s a dangerous man, and that’s saying something out here, amongst the most dangerous creatures in this world. To have someone like him on my side ensures my survival. To have someone like him attracted to me, as well? It almost guarantees my survival. I’ve known possessive men in my life, ones I’ve shunned because I belong to no man, but life out here is different. No doubt, a strong woman could survive on her own in these unforgiving lands, but I imagine it’d get lonely and exhausting after a while. Titus carries this undercurrent of animal and savage that seems to appeal to some primitive desire deep down inside of me. One I didn’t bother to acknowledge while living in the safe confines of Szolen. He seems to have awakened a feral side of me.
I hurl the knife with his guidance one more time, and though it doesn’t fall dead center, like last time, it hits the tree. “You’re not afraid of me honing this skill to use on you?”
“You wouldn’t be the first.”
“You’ve trained a woman before?”
“I showed her a few things.” He steps back from me, giving a nod, which I understand as him wanting me to throw it myself this time.
I mentally chide the jealousy that I shouldn’t feel for a woman I don’t even know. Using my newly learned skills, I chuck the knife, which sticks into the bark, and roll my shoulders back in pride.
Strong hands grip my waist, tugging me backwards, and my whole body stiffens with the movement. I wonder if he can feel my skin burning beneath his touch the way I can. The easy possession in his grasp with my back pressed to his chest. “Try at this distance now.”
Can’t he feel the air around us practically vibrating with electric tension?
As he strides off to pick up the blade for me, I study the way his broad shoulders taper down to a narrow waist, and the movement of his ass in those jeans.
I hurl the blade two more times, nailing my target. I’m not even paying attention to the lessons anymore. My focus has shifted to the way Titus has unwittingly stoked something inside of me. Something I can’t say I’ve ever felt before.
Sure, I’ve had crushes, but nothing so laden with need. It’s almost humiliating how preoccupied I’ve suddenly become, while he remains completely oblivious.
“So … the woman. She was your wife?” I’ve no idea how old Titus is, but the maturity in his features tells me it’s possible.
“No.” He swipes up the canteen lying on the ground, and as he tips it back for a sip, my eyes are, once again, drawn to his masculine features. The way his Adam’s apple bobs with the swallow. His skin glistens with sweat. His denim hangs low on his hips, showing off the deep muscular V-shaped groove that disappears into his waistband.
The total lack of elaboration about the woman drives me insane.
“I don’t mean to pry.”
With a huff, he hands me the canteen, from which I sip the cool fluids. “If you insist on knowing, she was my brother’s woman.”
“You have a brother?”
“Alpha brothers I met at Calico. But I was the only boy in my natural family.”
My eyes catch on his slave band again. “How old were you when they captured you?”
“Nine.”
“Your family must’ve been devastated.”
“My family handed me over to them to spare their lives.”
Frowning as I sip my water, I try to absorb such a thing. “That’s horrible.”
“I don’t blame them. I had three sisters. All younger than me.” Rolling his shoulders back draws my attention to the rock-hard bulges there, flexing with the movement. “Didn’t do much good. They were all slaughtered. Right in front of me. They wanted me to see it. To know that I was no more special than any other boy they’d stolen.”
I have no words for that. No rationale for why the soldiers I’d grown up believing were good and protective could be capable of such cruelty. “I don’t know what to say. My heart hurts for you.”
My comment seems to make him uncomfortable, the way he looks away from me, as if searching for somewhere else to focus his attention.
“We’ll pick up your lesson again tomorrow,” he says. �
��I’m getting hungry.”
“I’ll make dinner. You’ve done it the last couple of days.”
“It doesn’t trouble me.”
“Nothing troubles you, does it?” With a slight smile, I step past him, making my way toward the house, but at the recollection of his story, a sadness fills my heart. He was just a little boy when he was taken to Calico. Not much younger than my own brother.
I want to say that there’s no way my mother would’ve stood by and handed over my brother, and maybe it’s true.
Except that she so willingly handed over me.
Chapter 31
I settle on the couch, tugging a blanket up onto my legs, as I thumb for the page where I left off in my book.
The door to the cabin opens, and Titus enters, carrying in two jugs, his eyes alight with something I might take for excitement, if I thought the man capable of such an emotion. He strides toward the kitchen, where he sets the jugs on the counter, before rummaging through the cupboards.
Curiosity compels me to follow, and I find him pouring liquid from one of the jugs into a glass. After a moment of sniffing, he sips it, gives a hard shake of his head, and tips the rest back.
I approach from behind, standing on tiptoes to see over his shoulder. “What is it?”
“Homemade elderberry wine.” He pours another glass and hands it off to me, which I sniff, just as he did.
Potent.
I’ve never had any kind of alcohol, outside of eucharist wine, the holy blood of Christ, which tasted divine, as I recall. My mother always told me that wine was an acquired taste, and I always joked that I must’ve been vampire, as much as I enjoyed the taste of it.
She didn’t find that funny, of course.
I tip the glass for a small sip, and my tongue puckers the instant it makes contact, the earthy tart flavor dancing over my taste buds. Licking my lips, I close my eyes and open them on a smile. “More.”
Brow quirked, Titus pours a bit more into the glass, then grabs a separate glass for himself, which he fills almost to the top.
“Where did you find this?”
“Out back in the shed, the first day here. There’s a few bottles of it.”
“It tastes like absolute sin. Delicious.”
“It’ll also knock you on your ass, if you’re not careful.”
“I’m very careful.” I take it upon myself to fill my cup to the rim, and carry my drink to the living room, smiling as his gaze trails after me. I plop down onto the couch, nearly spilling the wine as it splashes up the side of the glass. “I shall not be knocked on my ass.”
Titus plants himself on the floor across from me, drink in hand. “Are you reading again?”
“Yes. Would you like me to read aloud?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t bore you to tears the last time?”
There’s a shyness in his eyes when he looks down at his drink. “I like the sound of your voice.”
Burying my smile into my drink, I take a long swill, swallowing down the burn of the alcohol that warms my belly. I pick up where we left off, reading to him, and over the top of the book, I catch his occasional stare before he quickly casts it away.
As if he’s embarrassed.
All my life, I’ve been made to believe Alphas were these sexually charged beasts that would take without asking. I once overheard a girl from the neighborhood, whose father worked at Calico before it shut down, talk about them as heartless, mindless machines that set their sights on women when they raided the hives, and sniffed out all the virgins to plunder.
Yet, this guy can’t even look at me without looking away.
With each chapter, my muscles turn warm and soft, my head light with burgeoning mirth. It isn’t long before I’m straining to see the words on the page and notice the slight slur of my voice that comes as a bit of an irritation. The more I focus, though, the worse it seems to get.
A hiccup pops in my throat, midsentence, and I let out an ungracious snort, slapping a hand over my mouth. “Oops.”
What appears to be a slight smile stretches Titus’s lips, and I lower my book, completely enamored by the sight. It’s the first time I’ve seen the Alpha smile like this. Maybe at all.
“Are you … amused?” I’m drowning in waves of amber, as he lifts his gaze to mine.
“Very.”
“Wasso funny?” I clear my throat in a poor attempt to be serious, which only serves to widen his smile.
“You’re drunk.”
“Not. Drunk. I’m …” What? I don’t even know where I’m going with this thought. And I don’t realize that I’ve pushed to my feet, until I sway forward a step and notice the flinch of Titus’s muscles, as if to catch me. “I’m jus … gonna put some m’sic on.”
He hikes up his knees, his legs tight to his body, clearing a path for me to the CD player. “I told you to go easy on the wine. It’s strong.”
“I’m a Daughter …. I’ve had plenty’f wine. Blood of Christ, and all that.” I wave my hand in dismissal as I stumble forward.
Titus lets out a snort, turning away from me, and shakes his head, which I take as mockery, or disapproval.
Before I even realize it, I’m standing over him. “Y’think the blood of Christ is funny? He died. For o’sins.”
“No, I don’t think the blood of Christ is funny.” The humor in his voice is unexpected and strange, unless it’s just my state of mind interpreting it that way. “You’re entertaining, though.”
“En’ertaining? ‘Sat what I am?”
He lifts his glass for another sip, but I see the dimples in his cheeks that tell me he’s smiling again.
Mildly bothered by his amusement, I stumble toward the CD player and press the play button. The moment the music begins, I sway to the beat of Stand By Me by Ben E. King. Singing the words I remember from childhood, I dance my way to my cup for another sip. When I turn, Titus still has his knee hiked up, his half empty glass of wine dangling from his grasp, head tipped as he watches me.
Flicking my fingers, I cross the small space and tug on the arm he rests against his one outstretched thigh. “C’mon. Dance with me.”
“I don’t dance.”
I take the glass from him, setting it on the floor beside him, and give a hard tug that, if he didn’t put some effort into it himself, would fail to move him, at all.
With a whole lot of reluctance, the giant pushes to his feet, shaking his head. “I can’t dance.”
“I don’t. I can’t. If I sai’tha’ earlier today, you’d’ve chided me for no’ trying.”
No level of concentration seems to be able to remove the slur of my words. I rise up, up, onto my tiptoes and grip his shoulders, which feel like a hard steel ball in each hand.
“Stand here,” I say, using his same words from our knife training session earlier. “Use this arm, for m’mentum.” Sliding my hand beneath his underarm, I prod it outward and take his hand in mine. “This hand’s fer stability.” Setting his other hand at my waist sends a tickle through my stomach, particularly when he curls his fingers possessively. Pausing to regain my composure, I clear my throat. “Now, sway. Back and forth.”
In stiff, inflexible movements, he rocks back and forth on his feet.
“Good. See? Easy-peasy.”
Humming the music, as we dance, I revel in the simplicity I’ve missed so much.
He pulls my body tighter to his, and my back stiffens with the more intimate contact, each exhale through my nose more shaky. Even as tipsy as I am, I can feel the electricity burning between us. The heat radiating off his skin absorbed into mine. The way his solid body presses against my softer parts. I’m not accustomed to these kinds of interactions with men, particularly one so robust as Titus.
I feel small beside him. Safe. Protected.
My own personal Alpha.
A ridiculous thought, seeing as these men were designed to enhance armies. To give them an edge over the enemy and ensure victory. Keeping him for myself would be like ho
arding my own personal special forces unit.
Lying my cheek against his chest places my ear to where his heart beats in a steady cadence, and I could fall asleep in his arms right now, if my nerves weren’t so wired. Our swaying slows. Slower. I don’t realize I’ve wrapped my arms around him until I notice the absence of his around me.
I tip my head back, lifting my gaze to find him staring down at me. Wordlessly pushing up to my toes, I snake my arms around his neck, drawing him to my lips. At the first feathering of his lips against mine, he pulls back, and I frown, confused.
“A lesser man would take advantage of you right now.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“Nothing but a fine thread.”
Smiling, I slide my fingers up the back of his neck to his hairline, which seems to send his eyes rolling back, before they shutter closed. “How ‘bout if I help you snap tha’ thread to bits.”
He opens his eyes to me again. “I think you’ll regret that.”
“I think you’re wrong.” I tug at the back of his neck again and press my lips to his. As a cannon of butterflies explodes in my stomach, I suck in a sharp breath. Even intoxicated, I can feel something move through me. My whole body tingles and feels light, with a rush of heat that warms my cheeks.
It’s new.
Different.
Unexpected.
I scrape my nails along the back of his neck and feel his groan rumble in my mouth, his fingers curl into my hips. He tastes like what I’ve unknowingly craved my whole life. Like liquor and dangerous lust. A flavor I’ve denied myself for too long.
When he breaks the kiss, he rests his forehead against mine, and I feel his hands tighten around my arms, as if he wants to squeeze the life right out of me. Our breaths mingle, both of us breathing heavily in a fight for air.
“I can’t do this,” he says in a hoarse voice, pushing me away.
“Can’t, or won’t?”
“Both.”
Beneath the buzz of alcohol, the creeping tendrils of humiliation climb the back of my neck, ready to swat me upside the head. “You’re …. I was wrong then …. I’m so stupid.” The embarrassment flares beneath my cheeks, and I wrench my arm to get loose so I can find a hole to crawl inside, but his grip only tightens.