His Pups Called Me Mama. He Called Me Nobody. novel · Chapter 11 of 24

Chapter 11: This Isn't Forgiveness

He opened the door before my knuckles left the wood.

He'd been standing right behind it.

He was in flannel sleep pants and nothing else, the white bandage stark across his left shoulder.

His hair was a mess.

We looked at each other.

"I heard you in the hall," he said. "For a full minute."

"You could've opened it."

"You hadn't knocked."

That was the right answer, and I hated that it was.

I stood in the doorway in the gray T-shirt the cook had found me, which came to my thighs, and a pair of cotton shorts, barefoot on his floor.

My wolf was so loud I could barely hear the house.

"This isn't forgiveness," I said.

"I know."

"I mean it. I don't forgive you. Not for the lake. Not for the five years. Not for 'Omega.'"

"I know."

"Stop saying you know."

"Tell me what you want me to say."

I didn't have an answer.

I walked into his room.

He stepped back to let me, and shut the door behind me, and didn't touch me.

The room smelled of him, cedar and smoke and clean sheets, so strongly my knees went soft.

A big dark bed. A window over the lake, silver with moon.

A fire burned down to coals in the grate.

I'd been in this room exactly once before, five years ago, to bring a crying baby to her father.

He'd sent me out without looking up from his desk.

"You put them to bed," I said.

My voice was shaking, and I couldn't make it stop.

"You did the bear. You checked the closet. You said goodnight to the moon."

"I should have done it seven years ago."

"Yes. You should have."

"I'm going to do it every night I'm home," he said. "And I'm going to be home."

"You can't promise that."

"I just did."

I turned around.

He was standing very still by the door, with his hands at his sides.

His eyes were gold all the way through.

"You're shaking," he said.

"So are you."

He looked down at his own hands.

They were.

Something gave way in me then.

Not forgiveness.

Something older and simpler and much hungrier.

"I'm not here because you're my Alpha," I said. "You're not. I'm not here because you asked. You didn't. I'm here because I want to be, and tomorrow I'll still be angry, and that's how it is."

"All right."

"Say it."

"You choose," he said roughly. "Tonight and every night. You choose."

I crossed the room and put both hands flat on his bare chest, the gauze on my palms against his skin.

His heart was going like a drum.

"Then I choose this," I said, and pulled his mouth down to mine.

The kiss broke into teeth.

I walked him backward, my hands on his chest, and the backs of his knees hit the bedframe.

I pushed.

He went down onto the sheets with a rough exhale, gold eyes black with pupil, and I followed him up, kneeling over his thighs.

"You're still shaking," he said.

"Good."

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