Making The Alpha Submit (BL)

CHAPTER 8: UNCONSCIOUS GIRLS

October 12th, xxxx

CURLS FRAMING HER FACE and her face turned away yet he sees the smile half hidden, shoulders slightly shaking in laughter but he puffs his chest, blew out a breath and lifted the hammer with both hands, back hunched over, legs bowed, strands of black hair stabbing the left of his eye almost blinding him.

Struggling, he places on foot after another and another until he's right in front of the crouched woman peering into what he calls 'syrup eyes', lively, thick and sweet like the sweetener. Everyone else calls it golden hazel but between them, it's syrup—his syrup, her syrup—the shine of it laughing at a joke they only knew.

(Here,) he says out of breath, eyebrows furrowed just daring her to laugh at him. She does laugh as she carries him and the hammer in her embrace, tickling his ears with the harmony only he can bring out of her.

The ride back home is as tense as it'd get, Precious thinks absentmindedly staring at the rolling plains swooshing past, that though he had a rushed shower, he's fretting to soak himself in a long, warm bath.

Lolling his head on the head rest, Precious eyes closed, body tingling at the prospect of the soothing bath, long body stretched out blanketed under the scent of juniper and clover, tensed muscles loosening lulled into a deep sleep.

Outside of his mind, his eyelids becomes heavy, three days lack of sleep catching up to him but it's a restless nap—one minute he's there alone in his fragrant bathroom, the next, someone's kneading his shoulders, massaging the chinks in his neck, combing the tresses of his hair and when he looks up into blue eyes, the hand grabs his hair and presses on his shoulder, the blue sparkling with the need to hurt him.

From there it becomes a series of teasing pain—bite marks on his neck, shoulders, collarbones and ear, hand prints on his thighs, pecs and biceps, his erection bobs at the pinches on soft flesh, skin a garment of goosebumps, body shivers as hot breath whispers on his nape, soft lips an hairsbreadth from his.

The car jerks and he wakes. Flushed and annoyed but disappointed that real him isn't aroused. The cursed blessing of a tired body. Precious tries to sleep back but to no avail and his already sour mood drops.

He stays like that, grumpy and bitter as they passed the sleepy village—their dirty green hills, shepherding farms, quaint houses—into their territory, the foreheads of the canyon coming into view.

Precious believes it's poetic justice that even after seven years of being in a leadership position, some things still manage to surprise him, make him hearken back to his hypocrisy when all he used to do was scream about the injustice of compromise.

I don't ever want you to walk a mile in my shoes, his mother had once said, crinkling glassy eyes hardened from years of life but he, like the fool he'd been had said word for word, I'll walk more miles with ease.

Ease, he'd said. Bah! What a load of rubbish. Easy would be free from the Blue bastards antics, the human government intervention and general life discontentment.

Easy is being powerful enough to protect the family you swore Heaven and Earth would be protected. Easy is not having your hands tied, your skull splitting, your Pack vulnerable, your children collectibles.

Easy is not spending three days in a conference that yielded nothing—no solutions, no amending, absolute zilch. It didn't even end on a sour note—that would've better. No, no, no. It just fizzled out. A bust.

The conclusion, we do what we have to do, an unsaid motto of 'you face your Pack, I face mine' was established. Not that he'd expected miracles but stalemate isn't the dream.