Night Alpha

19 - Mending Murmur

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Does he hate himself as much as I hate him?

« Do you hate me? » my words are soft against the skin of his arm. I woke up in bed with Milo behind me, arms around me and a leg thrown over mine.

I know he's awake because his thumb has been tracing the soft skin inside of my wrist for minutes now. I haven't found it in me to open my eyes though. The headache is gone. The fever too. Only the low ache of my burning muscles has survived the night, has survived his touch. It stops for the fraction of a second before it continues. It's slightly less soft, the tiniest bit more intent.

He doesn't answer yet, I feel his breath on my neck, feel his stare on my face. I bring an arm up from his hold to rub my eyes. A yawn escapes my lips and I don't have it in me to tone it down. Finally my eyes open to the bedroom basked in the rising dawn. Has it been a few hours or a full day? His lips touch the shell of my ear.

« No » it's low but loud. A clear message, cristal enough to bring my eyes fully open. Is it to convince me or him? My limbs jerk at the agression. He keeps his arms close. I have to keep inside the urge to struggle because that was unexpected. I wonder what else I will discover now that he won't hold himself back.

Will he be more touchy? Louder? I wonder what else I missed when he was holding back. I imagine a louder boy, less controlled. Because I don't want to imagine he would be more pushy, more of a man. How much more can I break? I squeeze my eyes shut, wish I had slept a bit more. Wish I ran faster.

« Do you hate yourself? » I hate myself for asking. I can't help but feel the need to drag him down with me. To hurt him as much as he hurts me. I try to keep the tears, bring a palm on my mouth to keep the sob inside. I don't know if I want him to answer. I don't need him to. I shouldn't have said that.

He doesn't. Milo buries his face in the crook of my shoulder instead. His soothing thumb stops on the inside of my wrist on the pulse. And it pushes slightly. My eyes open when tears run down my shoulder and pool in the crease of my collarbone. I'm tempted to turn. To turn and hold him, even if I was the one who hurt him. More than the wolves who avoid him, more than those who fear him.

Could this have been avoided? The pain we both feel? I wonder if there's a universe where we never met, where I was never taken from home. Where I didn't hurt him. I would have risen in ranks, or probably quit if the leaders negotiated peace. No, I would have probably worked as a lumberjack alongside Max and Carter. There's always a shortage of wood.

« Why were you there, that day? At the parliament? » I spread my fingers over my mouth to let the sound come out, hope he can't see the scowl on my face. He wasn't in the first brief. There wasn't supposed to be a second car. I understand why the queen didn't want to ride with him. I don't know why she let him come.

The tears have started to dry but if I were to turn, I sure his cheeks would be tainted with streaks. His thumb leaves my wrist for the palm on my face. He takes it and intertwine ours fingers, lays them gently on the bed. He hums, low and long, as if he's recollecting a memory. And I remember the wind. My stomach heating up, though I didn't know what it meant back then.

« Instinct » he murmurs a couple seconds later in the crook of my neck, voice still thoughtful, lightly croaked. So he knew. Even if I wasn't at the mission, even if I didn't become a soldier. He would have known. I wonder how his body can fit perfectly behind mine when we're both tall. It would have happened anyway. There was nothing I could do.

Yet I find confort in his embrace, feel at peace. How disgusting. I slowly take my fingers away from his, they unlatch softly, I curl them against my chest instead. Was I born for him ? Or chosen later? Maybe it was Detroit, maybe I should have been born somewhere else. Who would have he found then ? His hand lays there, palm facing up, fingers twitching with every breath.