Cry Wolf

Chapter Nineteen - The Touch

AN: Things get a little steamy in this chapter. Happy Valentines Day!

The Touch

Liam's POV

Her scent...

Lilacs and sunshine. I'm a slave to it's pull.

Abigail is curled up on my office couch, her arms wrapped around her pillow. She's kicked her blanket to the floor and my lips twitch into a smile. She looks so small and fragile in sleep. So perfect.

I know why she's here. She sought out my scent for comfort. Guilt rides me. This is my doing. My mate should come to me when she needs comfort, not hide away in my office.

Standing in the doorway I let my eyes wander over her. She's wearing a white tank top and tiny blue boxer shorts that should be fucking illegal. Rubbing a hand over my mouth I fight not to linger on the curve of her ass. Her tank top is too damn thin, giving me a hint of what's hidden underneath. Soft. Pink.

My fangs sharpen.

Take her.

Shit!

I need to get a grip.

Seventeen. I repeat the number like a chant until my body calms and my heart stops hammering a wild tempo in my chest.

Shutting the door I'm enclosed in her scent. I inhale sharply, breathing her in. And once again I'm fighting my arousal. It's intense. Painful.

Walking over to the couch I pick up the fallen blanket and tuck it back around her. I tell myself it's to keep her from getting cold, but in truth her body is far too tempting. It's wrong for me to look at her sexually. It's wrong for me to even imagine it.

She's going to drive me insane. 

Staring up at the ceiling I run a hand through my hair. I'm a mess and I crave a cigarette like mad. It was an old habit and lucky for me werewolves are impervious to cancer. But I'm trying to cut back. I don't know if Abigail will be immortal and I don't wish to put her at risk because of my indulgence.

The thought that she might age and die quickly follows on the heels of that thought. It's haunted me from the moment I realized she was only a half-breed. Some reach immortality, some do not. I feel as if I'm dealing with Schrodinger's cat. Until we open that box...

If Abigail does die I know I wouldn't survive it. No werewolf ever did. The mate bond was forever. One simply could not live without the other.

Do not worry of that now.

It's impossible not too. Looking at her in sleep it's hard to imagine her old and gray. In this moment she looks so damn young, indeed near child like, as much as I despise that thought.

A lock of dark hair curls over her cheek and pink lips. My hand reaches out on instinct to brush it aside, hovering mere inches from her skin. My wolf growls inside my mind, yearning for me to make the connection. I want to. So damn bad. My hand trembles to close the distance.

I pull it back with a groan. I can't even touch her. I don't trust myself.

Taking a calming breath I sit by her legs, leaning forward and resting my arms on my knees. My instincts urge me to reach out, to pull her against me, and feel her warmth. I resist, clasping my hands together tightly until my knuckles turn white.

I struggle in silence, opening myself further to her emotions. They're a storm. They have been since the moment I sank my fangs into her neck. She's scared. She's angry. She's sad. She wants me. She hates me.