The Mates of Monsters

Chapter 15

"So you want to make this work now?"

I sit back and cross my arms. "No, I've just been acting as I was because I thought it would be easy and fun. I've been having a blast trying to pry myself open for you."

"Is that why you kissed me?"

Fighting back my blush I say, "No I did that as practice for when I'm with other Alphas, specifically the ones that are pissing you off."

He nods, showing the smidge of a smile. "What happened to you never loving anyone in any—"

"Don't... go there. Because you won't be coming back."

"Oh but I liked that part."

I consider saying something cheeky in response, like 'So did Nicodra when I told him,' but I know David wouldn't like that one as much. He seems to have issues with Nicodra that no peace agreement can rectify. So instead, I say, "I really can't eat anymore."

"Alright. You can go to bed if you like," he tells me. "I can clean this up."

"But all of this Alpha drama—it's really going to be fine?"

David assures me, "I won't let anything bad happen."

We hold our gazes for a moment before simultaneously looking away. My typical self would seethe and contract at the thought of appearing needy, but I have come to accept that some things are completely unavoidable when it comes to the bond. Besides, I've already admitted to wanting him. How could he criticize me for needing him to want me back?

I stand up, but before leaving, I look over. "I was thinking," I leap, "that maybe it's time I could try staying with you. For the night. With a mutual understanding. I mean, if that's still what you want."

Hints of his smile begin to show through.

"Would that be okay?"

David nods. "Of course. I'll see you upstairs."

The look he leaves me with causes me to take a moment when I've turned the corner. I lean against the wall, shutting my eyes and contemplating the reality of me running back in there and attacking him. A part of me is so willing to disregard any form of decency, but I take my virtue with me up the steps.

I hurry into my bedroom and head straight into the bathroom to make sure no part of myself is suddenly out of place. My reflection is studied and inspected until I'm sure there is nothing more to do; we're sleeping, so it's not an act I can dress up for like the dinners. The dresses and makeup and styling made me feel like someone who belongs in this world, but as my regular self, I don't feel like a Luna or even a girl who sleeps in the same bed as a guy. This is something I want, though—even if I feel like an amateur. Ever since we met I've been day-dreaming about this moment. It's ridiculous—I won't even be awake to experience the majority of it—but it's another step forward.

I take a breath and have one last look at myself. But this time I'm staring into my own eyes, having a wordless conversation with the girl looking back at me. I can't help but hear her doubts. This isn't you.

I hit the light and she vanishes in the darkness.

"Brigette?"

Not knowing how long I was looking at myself, I step out of the bathroom to find David at the door. He's come to collect me. I meet him there and glance back at the room before turning off its light as well. When I turn to David, he's already watching me. He says, "We're just sleeping, so don't get any ideas."

"Too late, but I'll try to control myself," I kid back.

I enter the master bedroom as if it belongs to a stranger. The bed is in its center, and to the left is an archway into the en suite. There is also a pair of double doors that I assume opens to the closet. I follow in his footsteps as he leads to the bed. The decorative pillows have already been shed, and it's ready for me to slide in. I stare down at the duvet and sheets and pillows in their cases and wonder if I am ever ready for anything, or if I simply convince myself that I am. I wonder if there is even a difference.

"You're allowed to change your mind," he says from behind me.

"I was hoping you would persuade me."

I feel him near as if his aura is pushing into me. With every second that passes, I expect him to reach out and touch me. Alternatively, he comes in front of me and sits on the end of the bed. "What are you scared of?" He asks.

"A lot of things."

"And how many of those things truly matter?"

I press my lips together. "I wish I knew."

Before he can speak, I ask, "Does nothing about this scare you? Worry you?"

"I'm worried that you're being pushed too far too quickly."

"Normal mates do a lot of things too quickly," I mutter.

"This is anything but a normal-mate situation."

"Do you wish it was?"

David shrugs. "Maybe at first, but not anymore. Do you wish you got away that first night?"

My lips part. "I-I haven't thought about it."

Not wanting David to get the wrong idea, I move to one side of the bed and draw back the covers. While holding my breath, I lower down onto it. I shift under his gaze and pull the duvet over my shoulder.

He gets up and walks to the wall, turning off the light, blinding me. I feel the blankets move as he lays down—depending on my other senses until my eyes adjust—listening for his breaths, cautious of accidentally touching his leg with my own. As his figure slowly starts to shape out of the blackness, he says, "I've been waiting for the night you're here with me, and now that's it's come, I don't know if I can let you go."

"I won't go."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Because I don't want to. I want to be with you."

"And what happens when you change your mind and revert to your old ways?"

I breathe out. "I don't know. I wake up each day, worried that I've gone back, worried that I won't be able to handle this and I'll retreat. So if it really does happen, please don't let me pull away. Even if you have to drag me in here and lock the doors. Promise me you won't let me go."

The reality of our pillow-talk seeps in, and I breathe in a shaky breath. I monitor him through the darkness and find his own eyes resting softly on my face. If he slid his hand over and touched me, I might let him get away with it.

"I won't," he says deeply.

My limbs feel as if they are sinking and weighing into the mattress like bags of sand. "You know, I never thought I would actually be here."

"You were never going to allow it?"

I shake my head, giving him a silent 'no.'

"Well, I'm glad you did."

"I was going to last night, but you told me to go to bed."

David's face falls. "I didn't mean—"

"I know," I murmur. "I just get a little overly-sensitive sometimes. It's the girl in me—always wanting, hoping, making-up perfect scenarios."

He watches me as if I am insulting myself, and I suppose—maybe just a bit—that I am. Is it wrong of me to call-out my sensitivities and blame it on my girlishness? Is it wrong to romanticize the stereotypes of women that I used to turn my nose up at? There is a conflict growing inside me, and my inner selves are at war.

When my mother's father was dying, when traveled across the country to visit him on his deathbed, he lucidly spoke about my grandmother. She had died eight years before, but the look in his eye told me that he still saw her, and her image was as fresh and as beautiful as ever.

He said she was a brilliant mate and mother, but her most memorable qualities were her skills with people—the way she charmed them and befriended them and convinced them. He said—and I remember this exactly—that she could have talked her way to the top of the world. I knew my grandmother mesmerized him because he said it with the amazement of a child at the carnival. He couldn't believe she was capable of such things. David doesn't look at me this way.

He knows I am capable.

"When I wake up—will you be gone?"

"I leave early," he says. "I'll try not to wake you."