Always Watching...
It didn't start off as stalking. But he didn't stop it from happening.
Those kinds of things hardly ever start off as manic as they become. Compulsions usually begin as a small voice. Maybe one urgent need to take an action that is only slightly out of the ordinary. A person may resist this voice at first. Shake their head, deny it. It startles them. It should.
But many more may cave to them, at least every once in a while. That's not too bad—until it is. Until they're in too deep to back out, and the mania has taken over.
Ghost should have known the moment his hands twisted into a white knuckle grip around the steering wheel that something was wrong. The dashboard lights flash on. It's night, the blast of light usually blinds him. Too many long hours staring endlessly through night vision goggles must have done something to his eyes, he doesn't think much of it anymore, it's why he wears sunglasses past sunset.
But he sits in absolute stillness as they darken and he doesn't even notice. He certainly should have realized it when he slowly pulled out of his parking spot, staring past the waving light of the grocery store casting bright imprints on the rain soaked pavement.
He's looking past the store's glow. Past the haze. Past the other cars and the soaking kid whose been forced out in the downpour to round up the last of the shopping carts before close. The muted red of an old Kia's brake lights are flashing on the same black asphalt. The small, greenish-gray subcompact car moves to back out not so far from his.
He probably couldn't even fit in that car, he thinks. It's an idle, passing thought. He doesn't really care. He'd tuck in his knees and force himself in the driver's seat if he had too.
Maybe that should be another sign. It doesn't matter what his bones say. They don't fit together. Never even could. Her car isn't the only thing too small about her, after all.
Well, at least compared to him.
It's too late now. He's caught a scent and every instinct to find, catch, capture he's been relying on for the last... well, his whole life... won't let him back down. Not when it won't even be a hard hunt and the reward is better than a stiff drink on home soil with MacTavish talking his ear off and Gaz not being any less annoying.
He's not on home soil. In fact, he's not welcome back in England despite all his years of service. There's not enough land in the good country to satisfy all the retired soldiers now they're no longer needed. But the government promised them territory, and territory they got—it was just a little loop hole that they never mentioned where.
141 is all in America now. Still pack, still together. Hell, even all work together. Now instead of handling a rowdy squad, Price has his mits on a rowdy club. Though he actually seems to like the work, even if he hates the music. Kyle serves up a drink called "The Bomb" instead of messing with explosive rounds, and Johnny DJs. Apparently, it's always been a dream of his, now he even dyes his mohawk.
Ghost's with Price. He doesn't like the music either. It's pounding behind him most nights as he checks ids and waves people inside. Not a lot of action as a bouncer of a club that's not in a big city, but occasionally he gets to grab some piss drunk ass and throw them out, which is fun. Being in middle of nowhere Kentucky means sometimes he finds people that have a less understandable accent than Soap. That's always a jolt, especially when they're drunk. Ghost never thought he'd hear shittier English than Scottish English, but America never stops surprising him.
So no, he's not alone. Though Ghost has always been a loner, so he doesn't see them outside of designated hours as often as he should. People keep saying that was bad for him. He would rather "people" mind their own business. Pack included.
There was also therapy provided to him, that was supposed to help him readjust into civilian life. He went. Once.
Though they called three times a week to check in, he's never gone back. As long as the FED's or whoever paid out his contract keeps sending them a check, they don't really care if he comes in. Though they are contractually obligated to say they've been keeping tabs on him.
Ha.
If he wanted to be gone, he'd be gone. They all know it, which is why they haven't sent anyone to his apartment yet for a wellness check. At least when they hit his voicemail, it assured them he was still in town. Albeit, it also told them to leave him the fuck alone.
Right now, doesn't matter if he has or has not been repeatedly assessed for mental soundness. Doesn't matter if he knows every word of therapy jargon some ass in a neat blazer would slowly and politely tell him if he retold the story of what he was doing right now. He knows.
He knows enough about his own triggers to recognize he's already in deep.
Taking a deep breath, he shutters. He can still smell her.
Pelting rain on the roof of his jeep drowns out every coherent thought in his head. He's pulling out a little after the Kia does. Delayed enough to make it appear completely normal, but fast enough to keep an eye on where she's driving. Down the center lane of the parking lot. She turns right, choosing to head towards the exit with the intersection light instead of the other that empties right onto the street.
Always a cautious doll, that's makes him grumble out a good girl under his breath. The streets basically dead at this time, but that doesn't matter either. He wonder's if she's the kind to avoid left turns unless strictly necessary. He can't remember if he's seen her make one. She doesn't seem to like cars very much. Or the rain—though her type wouldn't.
It's not just the accents. The hybrids in this country surprise him too. He's met a lot of strange people in his time, exotic shifters a plenty. Mostly dangerous breeds though, and some rare crosses that he's half sure were genetically engineered, even if he never got a straight answer on that.
In England, most civi's are some kind of sheep shifter. A good number of rabbits and quail too. Prey, most of them.
Most of the American's he's met in his line of work were werewolves, or avians. Eagle shifters and hawks were common enough, and usually efficient. The wolves he never got along well with. They were often too wild for their own good, and had a hard time taking orders from those who weren't their own.
England never had wolves. Still doesn't.
England has foxes and hounds.
Wolves aren't around unless they're shipped in, or a sap inherited the gene from some other European bloodline. Those that do show up, don't stay. Something about the land doesn't suit them, and he knows that because they won't shut up about it.
Maybe that's why they dropped top pack 141 off to America—Royals didn't want a wolf hound on their land longer than they'd paid him to be, even if was born and raised there. Ghost would ask Price about it, but Price would probably never give a straight answer. Hell, maybe he asked to be moved. When Ghost chose to pack up with Price, he chose to stop caring about things like that. Gaz and Soap on the other hand were common foxes. Which is probably why they were so fucking annoying.
Ghost? Well, his family has been shepherds since men made the shift. Border Collies, if he was to be specific. All the men in his family line have been collies, but he's gotten shit for it his whole life. There's a lack of respect for working breeds in his generation. He thanks Lassie for that, and he made sure to prove himself to be anything but a helpful house pet in his time serving.
It also means he has a lot of energy. The military kept him busy and focused. Even though he's trying to settle into a peaceful life, it's not coming to him easy. He spends so much time alone in his apartment he's going to pace a hole in the floor. Nothing has been keeping his attention.
Work feels just a dead as being at home. And no matter how many hours he spent at the gym, he was still left with this buzzing need to do something that running on a treadmill didn't fulfill. The closest thing he gets to scratching that itch, is participating in the neighborhood watch Gaz convinced the pack to join.
He likes their town. Patrolling it makes him feel a little more in control of his life, but it always ends too fast. At first though, he'd been against it.
American civi's are a mixed bag. Prey, of just about every sort, sure. But a lot of big predators that like to take care of their own. They don't take to herding like the British do—it's not the same. Or so he thought.
Then a few months ago, he met her. The woman that's operating that Kia he's following. And all those fixated feelings finally sharpened onto a target.
They'd been slowly circling the roads of the neighborhood. Not too fast, not too slow, keeping an eye out for trouble. It's not just humans and shifters you have to look out for around these parts, but the wild animals too. Sometimes a monster from the deep woods gets a whiff of something tasty in the settlement and ends up on a rampage in rural towns.
This part of Kentucky isn't so far into the hillside, but they still keep a look out. Sightings of big beasts aren't unheard of, though the noise of civilization keeps most wary creatures at bay. They keep a sign on the truck which indicates to anyone who can read that they're part of the P.E.A.R.M. or the Private Enforcers of Alliance Regulated Might.
The members of 141 were now basically deputies without the connection to a single district. Authorized to be armed, and able to make arrests on behalf of citizens, use violent force, and generally act as independent officers. It was a certification they all passed easily, and it gave them a certain extra freedom most citizens didn't have. It was also required by the neighborhood watch they joined, which Price appreciated.
Most of the time the day patrols are quiet. And so are the night ones. This is a peaceful town, and of course it is. They're supposed to be enjoying their retirement in the quiet green countryside after all. This was their reward after a life of death and grimness.
Ghost thinks this is just another form of torture.
When his world changes, it's Sunday. On Sundays just about everything closes in town, including the club, so the whole pack has a lot of spare time. Today is one of the days they've convinced Ghost to come out on a ride with them. They're taking the road a little slower as they near the park, in case one of the kids they hear playing comes suddenly running out of the woods, when a swarm of small insects comes hustling out from between the trees instead.
The bugs look to be in a panic. Rustled up from a good resting spot maybe. Or so he thinks until they descend onto the truck. It's daylight, moths should be dispersing, but this group stays tight together. They land and crawl all over the pack, startling the hell out of Soap who's never been fond of creepy crawlies.
The delicate feeling of these small, dainty creatures all over his forearms does anything but disgust Ghost. They're plain moths, little gray things that are unremarkable to see in this area. But all together the batting of these wings creates the softest air against his skin, like sweet babies' breath. It's a gentle, pleasant feeling. He wants to cusp them in his hands.
Tough talk Soap can't handle it, he's about to squish one before Price tells them all to freeze.
"Do you hear that?" He asks.
Ghost strains his ears, and then he hears it. Besides the soft sound of beating wings, the moths all share one quiet voice.
"HELP!" They are begging as loud as they can, "COME QUICK PLEASE!"
The car is already in park and their springing to action. These aren't moths, but a panicked swarmer. The pack's demeanor immediately shifts.
"Lead the way." Price demands.
It sounds like there's no time to explain. They'll access when they get to the area. Moths take to flight again, and a trail of them leads them into the park where the problem becomes evident before they even reach playground. The regular sounds of kids rough housing and yelling has turned into real terror. A monster has crept close, likely attracted by the noise of the children and hoping to score an easy meal.
It's some kind of bear demon. Three times the size of a normal brown bear with a twisted maw full of scars. It's a beast of the woods if Ghost has ever seen one, and doesn't take kindly to having its picnic interrupted. The roar it lets out makes his fangs shake, like the reverb of a bomb.
They kill it quickly, and even though it's a fast brutal fight, it's the first time he's felt totally on since they moved here. Claws out, hackles raised, orders followed. It's so easy to fall back into that mindset it almost feels like crutch.
As the beast collapses, dead or at least near enough, they receive a round of applause from the surrounding civilians, which makes Ghost shift his weight between his feet. Uncomfortable. Why did Americans have to be so loud? And performative...
He draws his face mask up a little higher, just to make sure it's still secure. Technically he doesn't need to cover his face anymore, and in his den he doesn't. But only in his den. Which is more than he allowed himself before. When he was enlisted, he only took the mask of to shower most of the time.
Old habits die hard.
The beast taken down; someone is already calling the emergency hotline to come get the body. After thanking them, parents are ushering their children back to their cars. This day at the park is clearly over.
Ghost isn't paying much attention to them until the moths return.
He's not met many swarmers in his days. Insect shifters aren't nearly as common as their natural counter parts. She reforms when the moths all bundle together and thanks them profusely for listening to her. All Ghost's thoughts stop. All he can think is that she's perfect. Perfect height, perfect build, perfect hair. Perfect. She's talking now, and he has to force himself to listen beyond the pleasant hum of it on the air.
Words, right. She was on a walk when the beast came out of nowhere, she's so glad they were in the area to help before anything too terrible could happen.
Price, good man, tells her to take some credit. Her speed in calling to action saved some lives today. Well, probably. She doesn't take the compliment, obviously bashful and incessantly pushing the praise back onto them. Gaz and Soap are throwing out Lass's and flirty smiles like they weren't about to start crushing her to mush ten minutes ago.
Ghost is staring. And he hasn't really stopped staring since.
The first time they met after the incident, it really was an accident. He was at the store looking at the dismal selection of tea, when she grabbed his attention. Normally he'd be annoyed by strangers coming up to him to say hello when he wanted to keep to himself, but his voice got stuck in his throat when saw her again.
She wrapped him up into a pleasant conversation and the whole time he felt like he'd been sucked into a whirlwind. Mostly he responded in grunt of agreement or disagreement, but this didn't seem to bother her much. He learns her name that day, and with it he loses a part of himself. Fate must be fickle; it would have been much better for her if she'd never seen wind or tail of him again.
There's something about her character that he wants to covet.
Is it the way she tilts her head to read boxes in the store? Is it something simple, like her smile? The way she casually shifts to help herself out in mundane ways? All of it? Something more intangible?
He talks to her more, trying to find out. That's all it is at first. He's not following her, he's just curious. He learns the way she drives to work and takes those roads more frequently, keeping an eye out for her little off-green car. He drives by the library and notes where she most often parks—but he never goes in.
She's in his periphery, is all.
He's driving her way again. Around this time, she's supposed to be headed in for her shift. When he got in the car, he told himself he was going to gym. But the gym is on the opposite side of town so now he's just taking the "long way". A very long way.
His timing is superb. He can see her down the street, driving peaceably up the road like she should be. Then the car suddenly jolts and wavers for a moment before she gets it back under control. Traffic slows as she slows down and pulls off as soon as she can. He's intently watching now, though he won't admit outright he's worried.
Compared to him, most everyone seems frail. But when she parks in an abandoned strip mall and looks about to cry, he drums his fingers against the very wheel straining between his hands right now. A moment hesitance, and then flicks his blinker on.
Yes, he acts against his better judgment when he helps her. He doesn't explain why he's in the area and she doesn't ask. It's a small town, and a busy time of day. In her world it's just another happy accident.
They assess the flat and he agrees it needs to be replaced or she's not getting anywhere. The thing is so sunk to the ground it looks like a dark inky puddle under the rubber. Except, that is the rubber. No good. She's so upset a few moths fly around her head in a tizzy.
Cute. He thinks.
It turns out she doesn't even have a jack. There's a spare in the trunk but she doesn't have the tools to take off the flat even if she could lift the car. Her shoulders deflate.
"Stupid of me." She says under her breath, "I know."
"Lucky you I stopped by then." He grumbles and her face lights up.
Too much gratitude, too much sweetness come next and he's glad his mask covers up the red tint he's sporting on my cheeks. He leaves his own car running with the AC and tells her she can sit inside if she likes. He's begging her too so he has something of her in his car. Her scent, a stray hair. But she refuses, insisting that she helps and so he doesn't press it.
It's just a flat, he fixes the car up quick.
"Thank you, Simon." Her slightly breathless thanks nearly sends a shiver down his spine. "Is there anyway I can repay you for this? You really saved me here."
A few blunt words are all he can manage. "Just be careful."
She smiles. "I will. But next time I see you, let me treat you to something, okay?"
"Fine."
There is a light in his eyes when he looks at her. He can't help it. And maybe the moth can sense it too, even if she can't read the rest of his expression under the plain black face mask he still keeps on. It's thin, at least. Thin enough he can scent her through it, and maybe she can make out the way his mouth moves when he talks. She's leaned a little closer to him, and he's trying to look unaffected.
"You've got very pretty lashes." She compliments.
He grunts, taken aback by the compliment. "Just get off to work or wherever you need to be." He dismisses her.
She laughs, thanks him again and waves good bye. He watches her car merge back into traffic before getting back into his.
It would be safe to say, the intent behind his curiosity shifted that day.
They run into each other often. Share a few meals outside between their cars and once he's actually convinced her to sit down in a nearby pub with him. Slowly, he learns his prey. She's a transplant into this town, like him. Well, not like him, but nonetheless she wasn't born in this part of the country. She says she's from the south west, but frankly he's not very well brushed up on American geography. It's dry where she's from she explains, and the summer here is too humid for her. This much he remembers.
He bought her a dehumidifier for her car, and he knows she uses it. Can see the thing glowing on the vent that blows right at her face as she drives past him.
She's perfect. Responsive, and she doesn't even know it. He doesn't need a town to herd if a little flex of his shoulders has a whole damn swarm of moths dancing left to right. It enthralls him.
God above, his head is all over the place. Maybe that's why he's tailing this little thing he can't get his mind off of. Curiosity has turned into something darker. Every free moment he has, he's stalking her around town. He knows it's wrong, but he just can't stop himself.
Today is the last straw. His sanity can't hold out much longer.
They've just run into each other in the store. He's too eager by a mile to be near her, so they keep "just so happening" to bump into each other in places he thinks it's not too weird to reveal himself. The grocery store is the best for that. They meet a lot at the store, gaining a kind of repertoire. She's taken to calling herself his "mate" and openly complimenting his accent when he manages to bark out a few words in her presence.
Mate. What a word to use so causally... At home it didn't sound so serious, but in that flat middle-American cadence, that single syllable has weight. A weight that stirs his blood something fierce when he hears her say it.
He's her mate, he's got to be.
He wants to be that so bad he's practically inserted himself into her daily life already, though she doesn't fully realize it.
His scent is all over her property. Sometimes he shifts and just paces out there instead of inside at his home. Hers already feels like his, really, though he hasn't put that to voice yet. Sometimes he sleeps there, in the back line of trees where the shadows hide him.
That's where he wants to be tonight. He's so riled up, he might lay out there despite the weather. He's got thick fur, and its summer. The rain won't really bother him much...
Her scent is still on his mind, sticking the front of his body where she hugged him at the store. Normally she doesn't have a very strong aura, but today it's like sap and he's sticky with it. The biggest thing keeping him from parking and jogging off into the darkness is the thought that it might get washed off.
Right now, in the rainy reality of his late drive, in his human body, he already knows she's headed that way. He doesn't even need to follow closely to guarantee it. So, he hangs back a bit, takes the long way around to her little two bedroom and plot of land. It's a quaint house, with a clothing line in the back yard and a little garden. Flowers in the front.
He likes that she obviously takes pride in her home.
What he doesn't like is seeing her not inside it when he finally swings around to check on the property. The living room lamp should be on, shining through the curtains. She should be prepping a small snack to eat before she settles down on her sofa to watch some awful racy reality TV show and pick up a knitting project. Instead, she's slumped in the driver's seat, looking strained and out of breath. The door is open, and the one leg she's tried to swing out of the car is soaked through, shoes and all.
The jeep jolts to a stop before he can think better of it.
"Simon?"
She calls his name. It's only then he really processes that he's gotten out of the car. Rain makes his hair stick to his forehead, and makes the cloth mask stick flush to his skin. It's not like the balaclava's he's worn in the military with a waterproof silicate to make it weather resistant. The wet fabric muffles his voice oddly when he does talk.
"What's going on here?" He demands.
Too often he finds her in trouble. Most Americans don't get in trouble this frequently.
"Need to bring in the groceries." She answers. Then laughs. "We were just at the store, remember?"
He's not amused. "I'll bring them in."
"Oh, don't do that. I'm...I'm fine. And I'm not really ready for company right now." She tries to deflect his offer. Her breathing is labored. "The house is a mess."
He's seen through her windows plenty. If her house is a mess than Gaz and Soap live in a horde. Even on the worst day it's a neat place. It's not an acceptable answer anyway, because the inside of her house has nothing to do with the obvious distress she's in right now.
"It's just groceries. I'll get you inside faster."
She hesitates to answer. "Nice of you Si," that nickname always makes his heartbeat a little harder. "but I don't need the help, I promise. I'll get up in a second. What are you doing here anyway?"
"Had another errand and was headed home." The lie is easy. "Live on this side of town too, you know." The second one is more of a stretch. He can get home this way, but it's certainly not the fastest.
Her eyebrows knit and she looks down at her hands. Her skin looks clammy and not just from the humidity.
"Hm. I... I guess so."
"Listen, love." He tries to turn her attention back on him. "Can't get out of the car, can you?" Shamefully she shakes her head. Her small voice about snaps his self-control in two.
"No." She sounds mournful.
"Need me to call an ambu—"
That put a little life back in her. She cuts him off.
"No! No, I'm fine I just... I thought I had more time."
"Time for what?" And in that tone of voice, he won't be refused an answer.
"I guess you can't smell it in the rain." She murmurs. "I'm in heat."
Heat. She's in heat.
The words bounce uselessly around his skull a moment.
"Were you cusping in the store?"
"Shouldn't've been. I was doing alright, until..."
Until she hugged him good bye. Rubbing her tits against his chest and leaving his head swimming with the siren's call of fertility. He knew something was different, but he couldn't put his finger on it. But that's not the part that makes his cock jolt awake.
"Are you saying I spurred you to heat, omega?"
The designation slips from his tongue too easy. He doesn't mean to use it, but he does use it, so a part of him must mean it.
She whines.
"I can help you."
He's always helping her. Waiting in the shadows, watching. He orchestrates things to make her days a little easier. Slowing traffic, or meeting her so that he can herd her to safer parts of town—even though she doesn't realize that either.
She shakes her head. "But I don't want you to help."
He hears her, but he doesn't move. Not an inch. He's soaked through to his bones now and the upholstery in her car isn't fairing much better. He might as well have turned to concrete.
This close, with the puff of her uneven breath enough to stir the thick air in the car he breathes in her. The air is already heady, making his head spin a little. He's leaned down, half in the door half out. His fingers flex around the top, nails digging into the fabric of the ceiling. A cord within him tightens, tension increasing and he's not sure what he'll do if it snaps.
Her eyes are watery from emotion, already wet lashes flash up slowly when she finally looks at him. His darkening gaze is boring a hole through her head. Intent, listening. She's basically told him to leave, but he can't make himself do it.
He's not sure he can anymore, he's in too deep. Just as his thoughts tick darker, her voice pulls him back.
"I want you to mate me." She finishes after a long, baited silence. "And that's not fair, I don't even know if you like me like that. And I'm not trying to scent bully you into anything. You're a nice man, Simon, and I really like you, but..."
A nice man! She thinks he's a nice man.
He grabs her head quickly, the hand motion snapping. Shock flickers across her face, but she melts when his mouth presses against hers. It's fast, just a pressing of his covered face against hers. It's enough to get his point across.
"You want my mark, doll?" Voice pure gravel. He can barely say the words.
"Yes." She gasps back.
"Then I'm going to mark you." He declares.
He decided he wanted to a while ago. Saying it to her face though, feels surreal.
"Really?" She asks him that like she's the one that feels like she's dreaming.
"Give me your keys, and stay there." He orders. "I'll be back."
"Alright." She clumsily presses her keys into his hand and he quickly get's moving.
His head is thrumming. He couldn't have asked this to work out better if he'd penned out every action himself. Maybe Price is right, and he should start going back to church. His mother was Catholic. Church was a good way to get into a community, especially when he has pups. Pups need exposure, and...
Hm. He's getting way to ahead of himself.
Not now, obviously he wasn't in rut, but the thought adds a determined gait to his step. He hardly even notices the rain as his mind races. Would the boys be collies? Would they have a cross? Moths are fuzzy, maybe they'll look like her in his colors, wouldn't that be something.
Well, the only way to find out would be to try. That part he's more than happy to get started on.
He goes to the front door to unlock it before heading back to the car to get the groceries and trying to get a hold of himself. Now at least he understands why she was buying so much water, and snack food. But there isn't a lot. In a trip the goods are inside, and now it's time to get them inside.
Easy mission.
She opens the door again as he approaches, already getting up and taking a shaky step onto slippery wet pavement.
"I think I can walk now—oof!" She makes a startled noise when he picks her up with one arm. With the other the car door shuts and he hits the button to trigger the alarm in one fluid movement. Her arms wrap around his neck as he swings her between his arms bridal style.
A squeak leaves her, just audible over the thunder. "Simon, I said I can walk!"
"And I told you to stay put."
"But—"
Ghost sighs. "Just listen to me, woman."
"I don't like being called woman." She mutters back, arms going a little tighter around his neck.And I'd liked you to stay out of trouble. He thinks. But that's probably not going to happen.
"And I don't like standing out in the rain. Don't get everything we like, do we?"
How mad can he be when she rubbed her nose into his neck. He almost can't hear her voice over the rain. "I'm sorry. You're always helping me and I'm such a mess."
"Look like a mess about now too." He teases.
"Will you... will you mess me up more?" She asks as they step across the threshold of her quaint home.
Of course, her scent already permeates every inch of this space. He'd noticed when he put the bags down. He tried not to let it distract him, but now with this beacon of radiating desire in his arm, it's like the entire house rises up to seduce him.
He can't wait.
Any thoughts of getting her out of these clothes and warmed up before her heat takes over fly out his head. He'd intended on asking if she's already started nesting. Let her into her room. Maybe prep some food while being tortured by her needy scent calling every nerve in him to touch her. You know, do this the right way.
No.
The sofa is nearest. Her back hits it the cushions and she let out a surprised huff. He leaves her there just long enough to stalk over to the wide-open curtains and slam the shut. He's on her before she can even sit up again.
Hands everywhere. Down her sides and sliding under her knit sweater, touching a soft cotton t-shirt instead of skin. He practically growls as he pulls the tuck out from under her jeans. Up and over her head go both of them, he wants her skin bare. Now.
She moans when his hands cusp her breasts with both hands, her chest pressing into his touch. His hands slip upwards quickly though, too greedy for their own good. She no better. He doesn't refuse her grip when she slips her fingers into the scruff of his hair, scratching at his scalp and bringing their heads together.
A breathless question passes her lips. "Do I get to see your face?"
"I'm a bit a mess under this mask." He admits into her eyes. "A bit scarred, you know."
"Simon, I don't care, I want to kiss you."
The mask had become a part of him. He'd lost the skull when they retired, but the black was like a familiar friend. He didn't like people looking at him, he didn't like hiding a scowl. Didn't care for the stares he got because of his scars. It was a bother.
He ripped it off so fast, he startled himself.
She didn't get a chance to see his face before he answered her desire. A press of lips to lips, her mouth yielding to him. Her body yields too, grinding into the press of his hips over hers. The hardness of his cock trapped by his pants straining to make contact with the needy hole separated by three measly layers of fabric. Her wetness stains his clothes already, she must have seeped through her pants in the car.
"Wait." She gasps, but her lips are his and he's not letting her go. "Let." He takes her breath again. "Me look at you."
He doesn't comply to that one, instead tracing a sloppy line down her neck, nose pressing into her shoulder. She shudders when his teeth just brush her skin teasingly.
"I want to fucking eat you alive, doll." He admits.
"Hm, bite me then." She moans. "I trust you."
He clenches his jaw just a moment. She really must, she has no idea how crazed he is for her. How close he always is. He's called "Ghost" for a reason, if he doesn't want to be seen, he won't be. But maybe his constant presence has done something to her omega, made her more susceptible to him now.
If she was more conscious, she'd have more questions. His doll isn't dumb. She'd be suspicious and rightfully afraid. But the fact in the depths of her hind she yearns for and trusts him... He almost does it. His teeth throb, he feels the burning desire of bonding venom pulsing into place. He could. He could do it right now.
But this isn't how he'd fantasized sinking his teeth into her. He wanted her to beg for it, to be as needy as he's been. She's not nearly wrecked enough for his liking.
"Not yet." He admonishes her while she whines.
"You're always there when I need you, don't you just want to take me, alpha?" She ask-begs. Maybe she's further into heat than he thought, she's practically babbling. "I want you, I want to be with you always."
"I've got you already." He takes hold of himself, then chastises her. "Tease."
"I'm not teasing, I want you." she mumbles. "You're the one teasing me with your teeth right now—"
She cuts herself off with a playful squeak when he threatens her shoulder with his teeth again and a pointed roll of his hips. "Apologize, omega. You've teased me since the first day we met. You're going to take what I give you, and you're going to be patient."
Fingers drag against his scalp again. His omega is compliant.
Her head rolls back and she moans, "Mhm, alpha, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for teasing you."
"Then make it up to me, doll." Ghost goads, "If you're really sorry."
"Well," the words come out slow, hind brain doesn't like language, "what do you want?"
"A taste of this cunt." A short, frank answer.
She laughs. "Aren't I slick enough?"
The scent on the air says yes. That's not good enough for him.
He shifts to slip a hand between them an cups her mound over her pants. She moans again, griding herself into his palm. His touch says yes too—he already knew it. But he wants to be flooded by her, to finally indulge himself in what he's been so, so patient for.
"Take these off before I rip them off." He demands, but they're both scrambling to remove her pants mid-way through his sentence. Her underwear must be peeled off, it's stuck so flush with her skin. Their thrown elsewhere. He'll probably hunt them down later, but for now a more tantalizing treat is spreading her legs before him. It's dim, a single lamp in the other room casting enough of a yellow glow to let him see how she drips for him.
He sits back, loathing the loss of skin contact, but quickly repositions them. Her legs thrown over his shoulders and he hooks her around the thighs to drag her core to his face. The upper half of her body hangs down and her hands reach up to grab his forearms tightly.
He descends before she can protest. Whatever shock she has at the change in position is lost in the surprised yelp she makes once his tongue is on her. He's ravenous for her taste—how many nights has he dreamed about her slick on his tongue? It coats his face now; it pours from her in heat with the consistency of a faucet and he drinks it.
If he was drunk on her scent, he'd delirious now. Taking as much as he can, afraid it won't last but knowing he'll never go without again. His thumb moves over to thrum against her clit. She bucks, and moans, a light orgasm rippling up her back. It's almost like he blacks out after that, just barely holding onto the satisfaction of being here.
He keeps going, until she trembles in his arms. Hips buck, her fingernails dig into his skin, leaving marks—maybe even scratches—but he doesn't relent. She's tight and wanting and he can't wait to stick his knot deep in her, and make her jolt and squeeze on his length like this. Then he hears her break. A sob cuts through the rest of the pleasure noises, overstimulated and wet. Her body shivers.
"Please Simon, please stop!" She begs, "just fuck me, I can't take it anymore! I need—ah!"
She gasp-moans as he slaps her cunt lightly. She's made his fingers sticky, slick pooling in his palms, it splashes when he slaps her, making a lewd wet sound.
"Beg me better." He demands, feral for it. "Beg for my knot."
"I—" she makes an incoherent pleasured sound. "c-c-can't think."
"Don't think. Beg."
She pants deliciously. "Alpha." She whines.
He unhooks an arm, letting his hand trail down her chest and over the low of her stomach, pressing hard. She bucks up into his hand, a terribly delicious throaty moan echoing between his ears. She might have cum just a bit, but it's not enough. Her eyes roll back, her chest presses up into the air, but she needs more. Heat hits too high to be soothed by something as clean as his touch now.
The words rip out her after she moans, "Breed me hard, alpha. Stuff me full, never let me off. I want you to gouge me," her voice breaks, "please. Please, give me your knot. I need it, I need it so much. Please! Please?" The last is tinged with desperation.
He loosens his grip so she slips back onto the cushions with a huff. But he's quick to crawl back over her. Her wet, barely lucid eyes look at his face her hands grace his cheeks lightly. It's a sweet touch, it just makes him want her more. Their mouths meet with a roughness she doesn't expect but consents to. Her hands moving lightly around his neck and her mews of pleasure.
His hands are busy undoing his belt buckle and throwing that into the same nowhere her underwear has disappeared to. He breaks away just long enough to unzip his pants and free his member, watching her flush, blown out expression with rapturous attention.
Nakedness can come later, right now he's too impatient to be parted for the period of time it would take for him to slip out of his pants and rip his shirt off.
Cockhead teasing her entrance, she keens, words gone now. He savors the first push of his hips, putting a hand on her stomach to feel himself fucking into her as she practically curls up around him. Her legs hook around his back, and while a part of him wants to hold her down and fuck her in that wild rough way that will make her never forget that she's his from now on, when her arms curl around his neck and press him into a sensual needy kiss, he slows. Even, brutal thrusts make her quake and kiss him with a lulling grind of tongues and lips.
His knot is already catching on her walls and she milks him so tight it's like she already wants it. "Jesus, love." He moans.
She whimpers back, "Knot, alpha. Please..."
And he is. He's so on the edge the heat of it is burning him alive. The throb isn't just in his balls but his teeth. He can't care if it's sick of him to want this, if he's taking advantage. He wants this now. He refuses to fix his mouth to hers against, forcing her head back so she can bare herself to him.
His mouth spreads and he can fit her whole neck in his mouth. A possessive curl is so satisfied by that, he bites down before he can think too hard about it. A bond mark that's settled basically on her jugular. If he squeezed to hard he could kill her, it wouldn't even be difficult. That's where he wants her mark, to remind them both who owns her life.
When he pulls back, he's come down a little with the force of those thoughts, initially worried. Even through the white-hot rush of coming and a fresh bond. It's not a normal bite, he's not a normal man. She deserves a nicer bond mark. But instead of trying to push him off or feeling any inkling of unease through the tenuous new connection he's made, she tightens around him.
"Yes!" She hisses between her teeth. "Yes, thank you!"
He relaxes. Naughty doll likes it a little rough.
Panting, she pulls his head up from her neck and kisses him with suck love and longing her might cum again. Involuntarily his hips buck and they both let out a shaky breathy moan. He likes the quick little squeeze her cunt does when he rocks into her with his knot, so he does it a few more times as the minutes pass. He's not in rut, so it deflates quickly.
"Next time I want you to present for me, omega."
"Yes, alpha." She purrs sleepily. "All yours to breed. Feel so good, thank you... thank you..."
He holds her a little closer. "That's right. Good girl."
"I'll bite you... in my... nest..." she mutters almost incoherently.
His hand brushes reverently over her hair. The soft ease of her satisfied breathing beside him pulls out the same rabid ease, that feeling all those wings and delicate little legs on his skin had pulled unbidden from the depths of his person when they met. It's a paradoxical feeling. So pleasant and yet it brings out a ferocious hunger to the surface of his psyche that's consuming and primal.
He wants to feel that again, maybe he'll ask her about it when the heat between them passes. As he thinks that, a single moth seems to appear from nowhere, slowly flying around them until it rests on his arm. It's wings gently flap twice, slow and sedated and he goes so completely still. The creature dissipates into his skin and a pleased sound rumbles his chest as his new mate snuggles a little closer to him.
Fucking perfect.
His phone is the car. He'll have to get it later. The pack would be happy to find out he's finally pinned down a mate. Happier still it's that sweet thing that led them to a good fight. An omega with good instincts (most of the time) and cute to boot. Doesn't matter if Gaz and Soap have been shacked up for years, they'll still be green as apples when they hear the news. He almost chuckles to himself.
It was dangerous to let himself in. But he'd already allowed himself too much. There was no going back now. Not that he wants to. Especially not with the thrum of bonding keeping him alert and a need for more already brewing in his stomach.
He might be territorial and a bastard. He might be gruff and mean. He might do things that will scare her one day.
He might be a stalker.
But... what she doesn't know, won't hurt her, right? Everything worked out in the end. As long as his little moth stayed close to his flame, she'd never have to worry about anything ever again. He'd make sure of it.
After all, he's always watching.
Chapter 2
Life seems to breathe with an illusory sort of in and out, never the same moments repeated but close enough to make a person feel like they might be going mad. In the service, this regular churning of drollness and horror made the worst parts of his job feel the most real, and the boring parts the most surreal.
He’d grown to resent everything, thinking like that.
Escape seemed non-existent. He’d tried cocaine, and drank enough Welsh whiskey to pickle a rhino, but nothing ever made him feel as alive as the tenseness of a mission did. Nothing ended the dream-like nothing normal life felt unlike until he was working under live fire again, avoiding the eyes and noses of warriors fiercer than him, using the largeness of his frame to intimidate the weak and the smallness of his shift to topple giants. Stealth and espionage came as easy as breathing in and out, and felt just as necessary.
Sure, there was fun in fighting fair. But the quiet nights, peering through windows through a scope and keeping low to the ground while approaching a target, waiting for when the peace would break and the throttle of battle would rattle his bones and kill his hearing. That. That was once the feeling of anticipation that he would die for.
And the worst part? He knew it was hell.
A hell that marked and maimed him and his so many times they should all be dead a thousand times over. His face was the most obvious example of that, not to hide the plain and simple fact that the rest of him was covered in shiny, off-colored skin. He’d been shot, and stabbed, several times to not be very precise. Shrapnel did a lot of the damage though—turns out it wasn’t good to be too close to firing explosives for a myriad of reasons, all of which he’d learned firsthand besides the “because you’ll die” one.
War is hell, but he would have died for his duty and not complained. It might not have given him a good reason to live, but it at least made him feel like his death would mean something. Without, he’d been a shell of himself.
Those days seemed so far away now. Not insignificant—he remembered them, and they shaped every move he made—but the loop changed. Now those flashes of memories that sometimes haunted his dreams or made his stare go sharp yet so, so distant as he remembered the flash bangs and exhilaration? They felt like the dream, and it was the droll mundane shit he’d resented for so many years that he looked forward to.
Only one thing could explain this immense shift in perspective.
It’s been a little over a year since the Ghost, Simon Riley, dug his teeth into the jugular of the woman he could now safely and openly admit he was over-heels in love with. The very same night he staked his claim in her skin, she’d done the same to him.
Her primary bonding mark was lower than his. Not on his neck, or the meat of his shoulder, but a mark that landed on the patch of skin above his heart. It was a place he couldn’t show off well, but that didn’t matter. A mark like that didn’t seem to belong on a molted, rolled over corpse of a man like him anyway, no one else needed to know that she had his heart, except him.
On rare occasion he had to take his shirt off—because the pack got mud all over themselves while patrolling off road, or it got too hot in the gym and Ghost just couldn’t take it anymore—he’d get all sorts of shit from Gaz about it. It was a lady’s bite, hardly manly or cool. Gaz’s bite was cool . Johnny’d marred his mate’s shoulder, and it almost looked like a geometric tattoo. Though that was more luck than anything. Gaz’s mate mark was a messy blob that stretched across Soap’s collar bone and frankly Ghost didn’t really want to think about how it got there, or why.
He brushed the teasing off.
That was the mark of his mate, and, if anything , he wanted a thousand more. All he had to do was remember the glaze of need heat brought to her eyes, and the glancing touch she’d trailed down his chest before socking him with the sudden feeling of her teeth in his flesh. That moment of thoughtful desire, even through the worst crest of her heat, as she considered what part of him she wanted the most.
That was the moment memorialized on his skin, and one of his most treasured memories. So no, the damn thing didn’t look like it suited him.
Not at all. Not really.
Just like his vicious possessive teeth didn’t seem to match her kind smiles, or soft way of living. And yet, it was possessive in its own way, but maybe he was a little deluded thinking that. If it was just delirium, it didn't matter anymore anyway, because the bond was real and true.
One thing was true: He’d claimed her life that day, and she’d claimed his soul.
Thankfully his soul was better kept in her hands than his. She’s mellowed him, in a way that he hadn’t really anticipated. She was the kind of woman that would trace her fingers along the countless thin scar lines that mapped his limbs, connecting the spots between his freckled skin just to comment on the constellations they reminded her of. She was laughter and home-made meals concocted with vegetables she remembered as seeds. Quiet mornings with fresh coffee, sitting outside observing the various animals that gathered around their backyard garden.
He'd never imagined that he’d stick to a woman like her. She wasn’t a wasted, terrified shell like his own mother. Not any of the other women he’d been with, omega or not, made him want more than a night. They never took him by the nose and made him want to finally settle down. Never made him want to submit to their needs, and take their life between his maw. Never made him feel like both man and monster at once.
But she did, every time he saw her.
She could be bent over gardening, or too busy cooking to look at him, and she still took his breath away. Or her swarm could be resting across their front yard, mellowing out on the flowers and rising to greet him when he came home. A thousand little legs and soft wings beating air across his skin, creating a surreal embrace of love, while little voices welcomed him home .
It was always the sweetest thing to come home to, though recently it had become impossible for her to shift like that… Well, he’d look forward to when he’d get to see the swarm again, even if that was months and months away.
He was working out now, drenched in sweat and distracted with the thoughts that always seemed to drift towards his little slice of heaven when he let his mind quiet down. Really, he was humming to the beat of love that now ran beside the thrum of his own heart, wondering what had her mood so high but knowing he’d be happy to head home soon and find out for himself.
Yes, she ate holes in his favorite jumpers and called him my good little puppy when he shifted, but she was his. Perfect.
He punches a button on the treadmill to slow the speed down from a brisk run, to a walk, and finishes his wind down for the night. It’s better to run outside, but tonight he valued convenience over fresh air. As he slows, he sends a hand signal Gaz’s way to signal he’s winding down and soon to head out. Home is calling him, and it’s a howl he just can ignore.
Work, working out, or going on patrol are the only three excuses he allows to be out of his mate’s presence for any longer than an hour, after all. Just because he’s had his teeth in her, doesn’t mean his nature has changed too much. One might have thought that after bonding he might not have the urge to stalk his one and only around town any longer. They would be wrong.
Bonding was a special thing, not enough was said about how fundamentally the priorities of an alpha shifted once the venom set. She was always there in his mind, a quiet hum of her passing emotions in the back of his thoughts. Slight annoyance hit him from time to time, but mostly his mate was happy or amused by something or another.
That part of their bond he was addicted to. The joy of knowing his omega was so content in her life with him. He never thought he’d had that.
His parents never did, that’s for sure. Much as his mum tried to put on a good face, his sire hadn’t even bitten her—or any of the number of women he lazed around. The elder Mr. Riley had a loose pack of omegas and betas he slept around with, sired broods with, and often beat. Ghost didn’t meet his half siblings, but he knew that he and his dam weren’t even the worst off of all of them. That told him enough.
As a young child, when he still had dreams in his eyes like most pups do, he heard his dam talk softly about how wonderful bonding was supposed to be. If it was supposed to be what good alphas did, if it was supposed to be so dreamlike and powerful, why hadn’t his da done it?
His mother never answered that question, but now he didn’t need her to.
He knew why his shit sire kept his teeth to himself. If he could feel the misery and pain of being a shit-heals life partner, he probably would have offed himself.
Of course, there was the other side of bonding to consider too. The part where he always had a vague sense of where his mate was, and how she was moving. Biologically it was to make sure that she was safe, and the sense was stronger now that she was pregnant, but for him it unlocked a whole new level to his obsession. It was like he was truly always watching, even when he was miles away .
A part of him thought having kids on the way would feel like he was about to be sentenced with 18 years, but he’d never felt more alive. He wasn’t just working as a bouncer for the club anymore, but taking free-lance security jobs and building up savings for their soon-to-be young family. Whatever he could do to help them prepare, in what ways he could.
He’d even started building furniture on the side when he saw the prices for all the things they needed for a nursery. Chairs, cribs, shelves, he rather make it and know it was quality than waste thousands of dollars on trash. He was making so much stuff, he was starting to become something of a carpenter.
Anything for his pups. Anything.
Yes, it’s a quaint life. Small, but so deeply satisfying he feels drunk on contentment. A therapist might call it delirium, but it’s lasted so long it’s just become the new normal and he wouldn’t even let the end of the world ruin this for him. This life was everything he thought he never wanted and now couldn’t breathe without.
He’d been so, so right to covet this woman. His mate.
He was lucky the emotional-tether side of their bond was one way, or else his precious little swarmer might have been scared by the true intensity of his feelings for her. He still stalked her around town, he literally couldn’t stop himself, but he had to be more subtle about it. No random meetings out and about allowed any more. Not when she went out on errands by herself at least, since he was pretending like he’d stayed at home.
But he couldn’t let her on her own, especially not now. She was showing already, and wobblier than she wanted to admit.
She couldn’t even fully shift anymore, her body too heavy with other souls to swarm in the way he liked. But this was a trade he could accept. He was half-hard just thinking about how swollen up she was with his seed. They were lucky to cycle sync in under a year, just a few months after their first time, her heat pulled out of her by his rut. It made him feel powerful, made them both joke that they were fated.
Well… he didn’t need to cycle sync with her to know that. She was his the moment he’d laid eyes on her, and he’d made sure that came true.
There was only one thing he doesn’t like about their current situation.
And it’s the lack of double bond.
Why hadn’t he gotten one? Because he hadn’t mustered up the guts to ask. Getting one is the only thing he’s felt nervous about in the last ten years. He just didn’t know what she’d say.
Closing a bond wasn’t the end all of pack formation, even though it implied it. They could always add later, and the extra bites were more sentimental than anything, but it also meant a lot to him. The last thing he wanted was to lose what he had, but the idea of sharing with another alpha, forcing himself to scent another omega, or even a beta, made a clambering anger crawl at his throat.
He was too possessive to share, not even with his actual pack mates. And even if he did decide he didn’t mind that one day in the future (doubtful), he wanted a part of her to always be his. To claim more skin on her body than anyone else could after.
Maybe he felt the urgency to claim more because he got the feeling that the rest of the now retired 141 had some interest in his mate. They didn’t ask about some kind of official bond, or even flirt in a way that couldn’t be argued as just being friendly or making her feel like she was part of them.
But sometimes… sometimes he caught the looks they laser to the back of her head when they think no one will notice. And the air is obviously charged with a hunger he knew well.
It made him bounce his leg, unhappy but unable to do much about it. Two things could be true at once. He loved his mate. He was loyal to his pack.
At the same time, he wanted them to know that she was his and to make it so blazingly obvious that what he felt went deeper than just a normal bond mark. If he could, he would mark her a hundred times. Mark her until her skin riveled his, but puckered with scars made by his teeth, his venom, his hands.
The thoughts muddy up the haze, happier thoughts left him in. The jealousy licks his heart with a painful flame and he’s almost grumbling about it while walking to the shower rooms. These are off the main room of the gym, and when he rounds the corner to head in, that’s when he loses track of Gaz and Soap.
That is, until they're standing right beside him.
Gaz leans over, cupping a large warm hand over his shoulder.
“You know,” Kyle drags the word out as he and Johnny finished sharing a look. Now Kyle’s stupid mohawk is blocking half of Simon’s vision as he leans too far into the collie’s personal space. “I didn’t think new fatherhood would suit you so much, Ghosty.”
“Don’t call me Ghosty.” Simon grumbles back.
“We mean it though.” Johnny adds. “You’re a sire now! Can’t hardly believe it. Price won’t say it to your face, but he’s real proud of you for finding a dame and settling down. With a good girl at that, couldn’t be prouder, mate.”
“Then you should know now not to worry about me when I say don’t worry about me.”
They roll their eyes, basically in time. “Sure, sure.” Said but only to appease.
“Anyway, I don’t have time to laze around with you lot anymore today.” Simon shrugs his jacket on.
“Get back home then, you right grumpy bastard.” Johnny pushes his shoulder. “And tell that woman of yours to stop handing out all these treats when we meet. I can’t stop eating, and I’ve gained two stone, Simon. Two stone!”
“Tell her yourself.” Ghost snorted, unphased.
Gaz cackles that fox-laugh at his mate. “Thought only omegas couldn’t resist chocolate.” Then his voice gets low, “Got something to tell me, love?”
“Oh, fuck right off.”
The banter is so normal it just turns into the buzz of familiar voices as Ghost waves them. He’s off to his car, and he doesn’t care if the two of them are laughing at each other now, or just at him. Heading home feels a lot better than just heading back to his place or wherever he was living just for a moment, and it’s good enough to grab his good mood back from his useless brooding.
Unless he was going to man up, and just mark her again or ask her to do the same, he’d just have to let it go. She was swollen up with his pups already, what else did she need in order to know she was his? The answer should have been nothing, so he’ll settle on that for now.
He rolls his eyes at himself and hops in the jeep. His phone is in his hand, and he’s scrolling up the last few text messages to remember what he needed to grab from the store on the way home. He finds the list she wrote out, littered with cute little emojis that he used to find so fucking annoying (and now they’re so fucking endearing, what has he turned into?), and moves to screen shot when—
Fear. It’s a cold terrible feeling that makes his fingers suddenly lock up. It boils in a cold way he’s never felt so intensely. Wrenching, vomit inducing, fear. And as the initial impact of it mellows, it’s quickly followed by despair, and a sinking inescapable dread.
His tongue feels heavy, and he almost gags on it. Not his feelings, no. The anxious desire to run belongs mostly to omegas, and is only always an instinct of last resort in alphas. He’s rarely felt it before. And never has he really feared for his life as he does in this exact moment.
Instantly the errands are forgotten. Something is terribly, terribly wrong.
The thoughts that tick across his mind are of every worst-case scenario his fucked imagination has cooked up since he met her. That PTSD vision shite he was supposed to be seeing a therapist to help deal with, but still refused to go to. He didn’t need to, he was happy, he could control himself (lies, but his coping mechanism didn’t seem so bad anymore which was only more of his new deluded semi-optimism).
It’s a vain attempt to quiet those thoughts as he’s speeding away. Pregnant omegas are known for being especially emotional, he’d been anticipating her getting more so. The crying, the sentimentality, the irritation—though he knew her, and his doll wasn’t ever so irrational he couldn’t talk her down. There was no way to prepare for this sort of outburst.
God above, if there was just someone at home with her right now…
And this was the only thing that kept him sternly wanting a closed pair. If there were more members in their bond, they could help manage the stress of pregnancy better together. That was what pack was for. He thought they didn’t need it, that he could take care of his omega just fine.
But what on heaven and earth could have triggered her this bad?
In answer, his phone rings. Ghost barely looks down long enough to see the caller id. It’s Price. His grip on the steering wheel gets a little tighter, but a moment later he leans over and taps the accept button on the HUD with a flick.
“Sir.” He answers. He only calls Price that anymore when he’s trying to sound busy.
Price usually comments on that. He’s pack alpha but they aren’t calling ranks anymore, he’ll correct. This time he doesn’t say that. He doesn’t say anything. There’s a beat of silence. Ghost can practically hear Price chewing on his words.
“Why didn’t you tell her you were a veteran?” He finally asks.
That question catches Ghost off guard.
“Course, I told her.” Ghost mutters back. Honestly, the emotions churning in his mind are enough to make it difficult to pay attention to the road, let alone why Price would be asking him about that now. He’s half paying attention, not even sure why he accepted the call.
Then Price adds, “And not much after that, huh.”
There’s another beat of tense silence, then it clicks. It’s Ghost’s turn to feel mad now, “What did you tell her?” It’s practically an accusation.
“Just that you were good at your job, is all.” But in that sly way Price does sometimes. It means a lot more than the way he says those words. He always means more than he says, the bastard.
He thinks about cursing, or asking what in the fuck Price was doing talking to his omega with out telling him about it. Did they talk a lot? Was there something going on behind his back?
No, no. He tries not to let the despair on the other side of his mind let his rationality waver.
Instead of doing anything rash, he hangs up. They’ll talk later. With just a moment of clear thought he can guess at what happened after Price explained just how Ghost was “good at his job”, he doesn’t need a play-by-play. His doll wasn’t dumb, he always said that. If she heard even a sampling of what he and his got up to while they served, then she might have put the pieces together.
His odd behavior, the stalking, everything.
And now she’s scared of him. All this fear racing in his blood, that’s almost equal in strength to the love, it sets a fury alight in his alpha. He shakes that thought off quick—he’ll deal with Price later.
Foot pressing against the gas a little harder, his focus sharpened. He needs to take care of his mate. And he’s determined that he’s never letting his precious moth out of her jar, ever. Can’t she see that they belong together? They were always meant to be one? And even if they weren't, she’s branded his now. His seed rooted deep in her body. Babies and mothers share blood, that means his mark is not just in her skin, not just stretching her swollen tummy, but weaved into her flesh and bone.
It wasn’t too much a problem to remind her. He and their pups were the lamplight of her focus, yes, she just needed a reminder. Just a little one.
The hope he held onto was the sense of indecision that peaked through the illogical terror. She might have been throwing a bunch of her shit into a bag—a mental image he hated—she still hadn’t left the house. He could feel it. That was the only good sign he could glean. She can’t run when she’s this heavy, but, and he was taking god’s name a lot today, for god’s sake he doesn’t want her to be stressed.
He manages to slow down just enough to not get pulled over as his thoughts calm. What she’s worrying about is nothing—just his dedication to keeping her safe, and their children will have the same amount of attention. He’d never hurt her, especially not like this. But he’s sure as hell not going to let her go.
Over his dead body!
The drive way he now calls home appears before him faster than he realized, and faster than it should. But all that matters is that he’s here and his eyes confirm what his hind knew—that her car is still in the drive. He might like a chase from time to time, but this is certainly not the time. His mate can't bare to leave him, he has to think that's the truth or he'll drown himself.
He’s the picture of calm as he walks up the house. He doesn’t want the neighbors thinking anything’s wrong. He keeps his hands steady and unlocks the door, listening as he hears a thudding sound deep in the back of the house answer his voice as he announces that he’s back. It’s enough for now, so he heads through the rooms that aren’t just hers anymore, but theirs.
The few photos he has are next to hers on the wall. His trinkets featured on her mantel. A wooden rocking chair he made in their living room, her knits draped over them.
This is their place.
Even if he’s not welcomed back with the smell of a hot meal. No stupid show on the TV playing too loud. No singing. Just silence and the acrid scent of anxiety musking the air. It will always be theirs now.
It’s the trail of that scent which leads him to the back of the house, where their bedroom is. The door is open so he sees her there, standing behind a big suitcase she must have just shoved shut. It’s so big she’d have to drag it out of here to carry it safely and that’s not happening now.
Not even when she hears his footsteps (because he lets her, he’s walking heavy on purpose) and jumps. Not when she looks over her shoulder at him with wide, wet eyes. Not even when he reads the pain behind those eyes he loves so much, or the fear.
She stumbles back a bit into the bed as he approaches the door, and scoots along the edge as he enters his den. It still smells like them in here, stronger than it does anywhere else in the house, and that’s because of her cocoon in the corner which she’s inching toward.
He doesn’t speak, not yet. He looms over her as she scuttles away. Only, she's slipping into fabric that's laced with his scent and the layers of their relationship. Still running to him for comfort, even if it’s not into his arms exactly. As he comes closer to her curled up on the floor and turning away from him, he hears her speak finally.
Her voice wobbles with emotion, “This is my nest, Simon.” They way she says his name is cutting, “And I don’t want you in it.”
“I’m not in it.” He tries to keep his voice low, soothing. She just frowns, and he tastes her suspicion.
“You know what I mean. Go away.”
Those words slap him, but her voice tremors too much to compel him to move. More than wanting him to go, she wants to feel safe again. And there’s no place safer for her than with him. He knows that in his bones.
Instead, he squats down, so he’s not so huge above her. Her eyes follow as he lowers, but she just tucks her knees and curls more away from him.
“I said, go away.”
“And what are you going to do if I leave, huh?”
Her mouth forms into a wobbly line. “I’ll figure it out.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Please,” she scoffs. “You think I can’t figure out how to do this by myself? I had a life before you.”
“No, I’m saying I’m not letting you.” He says, firm and secure, and no room for refusal. “You are my omega. Those are my children in your stomach. This is our life. I’m not going anywhere, and nor are you.”
“You—you—you stalked me, Simon! I know you did, don’t try to deny it. I’m not stupid, Mr. Convenient.” She spits. And there it is. The truth. He doesn’t deny it, doesn’t waste his breath as she keeps hissing. “And you’re a killer! Not to mention you’re probably a war criminal.” She whispers the last part. “Why didn’t you tell me that!”
He shrugs. “Didn’t seem important.”
“Not important?” You hiss. “Not important? That’s vitally important information! How am I supposed to feel safe around you?”
It’s the accusation and the waver in her voice that breaks him just a little. He’d kept himself under control until that moment, because he knows the truth. He is safe, at least the safest harbor in the world for her. The alpha in him can't take it. It’s not scent bullying or manipulation when he’s just trying to calm her down, right? When his voice gets low, just above that place he could use that would force her to stay. And laying his musk down must work, because she doesn’t flinch when he scoots a little closer.
“Have you ever felt unsafe around me?” He asks.
“Yes, I’m scared right now. I feel like I don’t know you at all!”
He uses his knuckles and drags them down her cheek, where they feel wet and raw. She’s obviously been crying hard. But she pressed back into his touch, just a little. His omega. Beyond all that panic, that human suspicious part of her mind, she knows who she belongs to.
“Don’t be scared.” He practically murmurs. “I love you.”
“Simon…” She sighs. She almost doesn’t have to say it. Love isn’t enough.
But they have more than love already, he just can’t get his mouth to say those words. Instead, he just let his touch wander a little, down her neck and across her shoulder. No grabbing, nor too hard, just a light stroke. Like he was petting her.
She doesn’t tell him to stop, or to back away, so he keeps going.
“Have I ever touched you wrong?” He asks.
She sucks in her lower lip, but doesn’t look him in the eyes. “No.”
“Have I ever hurt you?”
She thinks for a moment, and shakes her head. “…no.”
“Has it ever bothered you, when I’ve been around and you didn’t know it?”
That makes her eyes twitch back to meet his, “And what kind of question is that?”
“The kind of question that gets you thinking about how much I’ve helped you, when I shouldn’t have been anywhere nearby.” He explains, and though she frowns but doesn’t answer right away. “Everything I’ve done is just to help you, doll, you know that.”
“That doesn’t matter! You still stalked me. I know you did! I knew it. I knew I would see your car all the time and you used to show up everywhere I was. Smell you when you weren’t there. See a dog at the fence line late at night.” She sniffles, obviously holding back tears, “That was you!”
“It was.” He admits.
“That’s… that’s just wrong!” Her voice tips up in volume, not quite a shout but almost. And he would tell her to lower her voice if she didn’t say what she said next. “Is that what happened the night you mated me, and don’t lie!”
“Yes.” He says it plainly. No hiding this time.
“That’s fucked up, Si! Don’t fucking touch me.” She bats his hand away.
He removes it, but not without getting closer, the width of his body making sure his presence is a cage, which would make getting up without his help nearly impossible.
“I just wanted to make sure you were safe, is all. That’s not wrong.” He tries to explain, though those words hardly equate to his true feelings. “You don’t understand what you do to me, love.”
“No. No, Simon, just no.” She throws her hands up in the little space between them, looking up with those pretty eyes. The fear tastes less heavy on the air, and she just looks exasperated. He almost smirks, but he stops himself before he ruins this. She then adds, “If you needed to check in with me, you could have just called.”
“Why call you when I could see you? I knew you were mine the moment I laid my eyes on you. It’s not wrong to look at what’s yours.”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, what- ever—”
“And you wanted me too.” He declares, and before she can bother with an argument, he adds, “You must have thought it was weird we kept running into each other before that. Fact, I know you did. But you liked it.”
She squirms but doesn’t deny it. She won’t lie, not to him at least, his doll isn’t like that so he takes it as an invitation.
She’d suspected for a while something was off with him. Maybe it was his generally cold exterior that set the warning bells off first, and his quietness. The pointed way he moves. How he surveys a room. Maybe it was that he’d shown up to save her from some minor inconvenience one time too many. But she must have known if it only took someone close to him like Price to confirm it through a casual conversation about his past. Only Price could have done it, he thinks, since she’d formally met Johnny boy and Kyle but they talked too much about themselves to reveal any of Ghost’s secrets.
Damn Price.
Now he leans in, so his words ghost across her skin.
“It’s simple.” He decides to lay it out plainly. “I marked you and you marked me, omega. We’re a pair now. And you’ll have to live with the fact that some part of you loved that I was always there. Lived for it. And now you need me there. Makes you feel wrong when you’re all by yourself. I know all about it, doll.” He taps his temple. “You can’t hide from me.”
She throws her arm over her face, “You’re trying to twist this all up.”
“I’m not. A part of you must have known, you’re not dumb.”
“Stop saying that!”
“There’s nothing wrong with it, doll face.” He tries to soothe. “All you have to do is just keep letting me love you the way I love, like you always have. Isn’t that alright?”
She sucks in her lip. The tenor of her inner voice in his mind tells him the truth.
“Come on, just be a good girl. Admit it. You like it. You like that I’m dangerous and you let me fuck you until your plump and full. My pups are in there making your feet hurt and your back ache. Even if you run away from me now, a part of you is always going to be haunted by me. Our kids just reminding you that you and me are one. Forever. Don’t care if you run off on me, can’t change that. And I’d always find you, even if you tried.”
At the wordings running off she actually cries, “I really don’t want to lose you, Si. I don’t. But this is wrong—!”
“Says who?” He hushes, and this time when he soothes her hair, she doesn’t tell him to stop. “No harms been done, has it? Just accept me, doll. That’s all you’ve got to do.”
“It’s not that easy.” She whimpers into her arms.
“It can be.” His voice is a lull, hypnotically low.
He can almost hear how her mind is straining against the logical thing to do and her real desire. He’s not normal, he never claimed to be, but he loves his doll more than the world. That is real. He leans closer, and lets the tip of his nose rub against the back of her neck and her shoulders relax just a little.
He adds. “And I’m sorry for scaring you. Never meant to.”
“Not for stalking me around town?”
“No.”
“Then what am I supposed to do, huh?” She asks, pushing the tears off her cheeks when she finally looks at him again. “If you’re just going to keep doing whatever you want?”
She’s trying to push him away, just a little. A roll of her shoulders, and brushing him off. But he refuses to back away now, using her squirming to maneuver her around so they’re face-to-face, and chest to chest. He would never live without this intimacy again—being so close to her that her exhale became his inhale.
“Stop squirming away from me.” He grumbles when she tries to turn back over.
“You’re lucky I’m letting you touch me right now.” She mutters back. He just hums in response, happy enough that she stills. Then after a moment she adds, “Will you at least stop?”
“Can’t promise that doll. Can you stop sending moths with me to work?”
She snaps back to stare up at him, looking a little shocked. “You noticed them?”
“I notice everything about you.” He answers, as if it’s as simple as that. “Now relax, stress is no good for our brood.”
“Having a stalker for a sire isn’t good for our children either, Simon!”
“Didn’t think it was a problem when you were begging for me to breed you.” She blushes and he hushes her, “This is just your hormones, doll, trying to keep my babies safe. But by me is the safest you’ll ever be.”
“I want to believe you.”
“Then just do it, nothing's changed.”
“But it has! Now that I know for sure, it changes everything.” She insists and sits up. “And if I forgive you,” he can’t help but sheepishly smile, “I said if,” she quickly adds with a roll of her eyes, as if she hadn’t already forgiven him, “I don’t want you sneaking around Simon. You can just be beside me, you don’t have to watch from the shadows, I love you and I’m always wondering where you are. This is our life; we’re supposed to be living it together. That doesn’t mean me living and doing stuff while you’re watching from the shadows like a creeper!”
He… he never really thought about it like that. The truth of it stabs his heart, but he nods. Maybe that was something he could change, maybe that would even be better.
“Right by your side, from now on.” He promises. “Always. I just…” he huffs, “I just love you so much, and this is the only way I know how to be. Forgive me. Because you’d have to kill me to make me leave you. I’d rather die.”
He leans down, so their foreheads touch, and they gaze into each other’s eyes. “I don’t want you to die, Si.” She murmurs against his lips.
“Then don’t make being with me wrong. It’ll kill me.”
It’s almost pitiful, that look she lays his way when he admits that. How low he will be for her. But she sighs, and to his great relief, with that breath her heart finally feels calm again.
“You’re lucky I love you more than I should.”
“I know.”
“Then stop hiding from me, hmm. How about that? Don’t make me run away, when you can just be yourself. Not when I don’t want anyone else.”
The blood rushes in his ears, and he thinks for a moment, maybe his mate is just as possessive as him. Maybe she does get it. Maybe in some little way, they were cut from the same cloth, and he swore to himself he wouldn’t just be a watcher in his life: he would always be there, right by her side.
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