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He’s well behaved with you. Mostly.
As a dominant alpha that manifested at a prodigious age, Xavier’s had a lifetime to learn to keep his baser instincts in check. After years of etiquette lessons and pheromone exposure therapy, he has a better handle on himself than even most betas.
At the time, it all felt like overkill. Now he’s grateful for his ironclad self control.
Because you don’t like alphas.
If he didn’t know you so well, it would be hard to spot. A subtle hitch of your shoulders, eyes marking the closet exit. He never broaches the subject with you. A little wariness around alphas isn’t necessarily un- healthy, especially the ones as big and mean as the other hunters. He just puts his body between you and whoever’s making you nervous, makes sure he’s always within arm’s reach in any crowded room, and savors the fact that no one can ever really get close enough to hit on you.
Despite his urge to smother you in his scent, he keeps his pheromones stifled. He tempers all the snarling aggression, the violent possessiveness. He doesn’t grab or pull, he doesn’t make demands.
And you reward him with a peace unlike any he’s ever known.
His feelings for you are a softer revelation than all those stories of fated mates he’s heard, more knowing than instinct. You’re his best friend, his partner, his sun and moon and stars. It doesn’t matter if you’re a beta. He doesn’t need divine intervention — he can love you enough of his own free will.
If only you would let him.
Sometimes he thinks you’re just shy, waiting for him to take the lead.
He flirts relentlessly, dropping hint after hint. A hand against your lower back, a compliment about your lips. You bask in the attention, but never ask for more.
It makes him antsy. Unwilling to push you, but so desperate for your affection.
Everytime you come over to his place, he feels lightheaded with the possibilities, the opportunities. He could have kissed you in the kitchen, or when you passed by him in the hall. On the couch, in the bathroom. He’d bought a new bed just weeks ago, vague notions of you and him tangled in the sheets clouding him. He wonders how it would feel to wake up to you there.
He knows life with you would be so natural, sweet. Even now, curled up on the couch watching some silly romcom, the pair of you navigate the evening like you’ve known each other forever forever. An awareness and ease that runs bone deep. No one talks over anyone, and no one misunderstands. You like the apartment the same temperature, the lights the same brightness. You place your feet in Xavier’s lap and he thumbs the delicate skin of your ankle, and the both of you sink deeper into the cushions, ever so slightly more relaxed by the contact.
Your visit winds to an end, and you hesitate at the door. You fish for something to say, another topic of conversation to prolong the night. Fingers fiddling with the hem of your shirt, looking up at him through your lashes, all guileless and charming.
He can’t help himself, stepping into your space, hands cupping over yours. “You don’t have to leave,” he murmurs.
You could stay forever, if you want.
He pauses there, just a breath away. Waiting for you to close the distance, let him know this is okay.
Your thumb flexes, the knuckle stroking up against his palm. You lick your bottom lip and he can feel the humid air stirring, can taste the breath you share. You stare at the place where his collar rises above his loose shirt, pupils ocean-deep.
The seconds seem to dilate, an infinity held between each heartbeat.
He can feel your desire as if it were his own. You want . So badly.
And yet you reach for the door.
“See you tomorrow,” you toss shakily over your shoulder.
Then you’re gone.
…
The mission is a simple reconnaissance. A gala at the Primrose Hotel and Ballroom, a cocktail party billed as a charity event.
The two of you loiter on the balcony, waiting and watching for the mark to arrive.
Xavier has a history with formal wear, but you’re clearly not as comfortable in the floor length gown they’ve put you in. It’s a simple ensemble, meant to fade into the background of the more elaborate outfits tonight. But it’s heavy, not easy to run in. It puts you on edge.
He watches you adjust your spaghetti strap for the hundredth time tonight, sticking a thumb between the satin and your skin, pulling forward and back. He thinks about tucking his finger there, too.
Two hours in, you're on your second pheromone cigarette, the scent overwhelming everything else, clinging to your hair, your clothes. It’s another one of your odd little quirks – you never smell like you. Always doused in alpha cologne, chewing infused gum, smoking those potent cigarettes.
Curious, Xavier holds out his hand. You pass it to him wordlessly.
Even the taste of your lips lingering on the paper isn’t enough to outweigh his displeasure. The synthetic pheromones are so pungent and heavy on his tongue it nearly makes him gag.
You take it back with a laugh, but he’s not sure you really like them either. Sometimes you barely even smoke, just let it turn to ash between your fingers.
“I offer to buy you the finest cigarettes in Linkon,” he says. “And you would rather go around reeking of alpha.”
“That’s the point. Maybe I want to be extraordinary too,” you say wryly. “Like you.”
“I’m nothing special,” he returns.
“Okay, mister dominant alpha.”
He leans his elbows against the railing, looking off over the skyscape. The city flickers with its halogen glow, a million little windows lit up against the dark night.
“In my family,” he begins, a bemused tilt to his lips, “it’s just what’s expected of us. We marry alphas. We breed alphas. Not for love, but to consolidate power. Our secondary genders are just another means to an end.”
It might be the first time he’s ever willingly mentioned his family to you. You take a second to mull this information over, not exactly pleased about the divulgence.
“Rather draconian,” you say.
“It’s bullshit,” he corrects. “None of it matters.”
You stare at him, all shadows and satin, so beautiful despite your discomfort, the tension in your features. He wishes he could just spirit you away, back home, where a warm bed and soft pajamas are waiting. He wishes you never had to have a conversation like this, that makes you look at him with such stoic resignation.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says again. Meaning it.
“Easy for someone at the top of the food chain to say.” You take another drag, then ash your cigarette. The target is here.
You do your work schmoozing while Xavier runs interference with some of the other partygoers. He watches you from the corner of his eyes, hackles raising when he sees the man place a hand on your shoulder, right on top of that silky little strap.
Distracted, he barely catches the invitation posed to him.
“A dominant like you must be in need of more companionship than most.” A wink. A tap on his arm. “We have more than enough to keep you satisfied.”
An omega brothel. Quite bold to bring it up so openly, but the upper echelons tend to be less squeamish about breaking laws. There had been a crackdown years ago, but it was pointless. There would always be desperate omegas, and there would always be people keen to keep them that way.
Xavier pastes on a disarming smile, hoping that the night will be over soon. “I already have a companion. They’re quite enough for me.”
Thirty minutes later, you have what you came for. You send off the new information to Intel, and then hunt down Xavier, waiting for you in the corner of the ballroom.
He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed. He doesn’t look up when you approach, just continues to stare out across the sea of shimmering sequins and taffeta.
The band is playing a song so similar to one he’s heard before. A long, long time ago. He knows it can’t possibly be the same, but with you standing at his side in formalwear while the violins fill the air, a melancholy deja vu comes over him. It’s all he can do to sit with the sensation until the song flutters to an end.
You don’t interrupt his brood, inured to his mood swings. You just stand beside him, tapping your foot along to the beat.
“You were standing quite close,” he says finally.
“We were having a conversation.”
You step in front of him, ducking to try to catch his eyes. He still won’t look at you.
With one warm hand, you cup his chin, squeezing his cheeks. Forcing him to meet your gaze.
His frown deepens.
“Look at that face,” you drawl. “Are you gonna waste the night being grumpy, or are you gonna dance with me?”
As if he could ever resist an offer like that.
Taking your hand, he leads you out onto the dance floor and into a seamless waltz. You don’t know the steps, but Xavier guides you through it. Your hands rest, warm and soft on his shoulders. He squeezes your hips, moves you like a gentle caress.
It’s so effortless between you two, pace for pace, beat for beat. He leads, and you trust him. A perfect equilibrium in ¾ time.
“How are you so good at this?” you ask, laughing as he dips you.
“Maybe it’s just a product of our bodily compatibility.”
“I think you’re just a show off.”
He smiles. “That too.”
He pauses when the waltz draws to an end, waiting to see if you'll pull away. Instead, you take a step closer, urging him into another dance.
You splay your hands against his lapels, thumbing at the fine boning of the peak. Your finger slips beneath the fold on the left side, still two layers away, but nearer to his heart now.
He grips you tighter, leaning over you so your cheeks brush.
Like this, he thinks he can smell the true scent of you. Something like a cool spring day, a soft epiphany. Gentle and soothing, even in the glamorous clamour of this place.
Or maybe he just wants you so bad he’s started to hallucinate.
He pulls you away when you finally begin to lag two dances later, your heels aching. Dutifully, he fetches you glasses of designer cocktails, teasing you when you tell him you need to make use of the open bar while you have the chance.
He humors all your silly conversation topics, nods eagerly along to your meandering stories. He holds his arm out for you to investigate his shiny, intricate cufflink, laughing when you accidentally trigger the release mechanism and it rolls away into the crowd, lost.
You pat apologetically at his exposed wrist. He flexes his arm, just to hear you giggle at the rise of veins and muscle there.
He indulges you a bit more than he should, enamoured by your tipsiness.
Your touches grow bolder, less inhibited. You pet his lapels, his chest, the way he knows you wanted to while you were dancing.
Your pinky strokes against the high collar of his shirt, where the fabric folds against his skin, and he suppresses a shudder.
You try to tuck a finger into his shirt, but he grabs your hand, pressing a kiss to it.
“That’s enough.”
You give him a playful pout as you acquiesce, handing over your empty glass for him to deal with, letting him guide you out of the ballroom and upstairs. You have the suite for the whole night, which he’s grateful for. One less flight of stairs for you to navigate in your tipsy state.
After seating you on the bed, he slips off your shoes, rubbing gently at your sore heels. Then he grabs your ankles, using them to twist your body fully onto the bed.
You gasp, swatting at him playfully. He catches your wrist, thumb rubbing your knuckles.
“Lay down,” he tells you. “It’s time to sleep.”
“I'm not tired.”
“Try counting sheep. Here, I'll help.” He unfolds your fingers, listing them off. “One sheep…two sheep…three sheep-”
You wrestle your hand back with a murmur of exasperation, and he rises, stalking to the far side of the room.
For a moment he curses the stinginess of the Association, the suite so compact it barely takes him three strides to cross it.
He fiddles with the control panel mounted on the wall, just to give himself something to do. He sets the temperature to your preference, dims the lights, sets the alarm so you won't oversleep. When did he come to know you better than himself? How has he ever been able to hold himself back from taking care of you, just like this?
He turns back to you, feeling lost.
Your eyes meet his. Clear, cognizant. As if you'd never really been drunk at all.
“Xavier,” you say, just to say it. His name is heavy in your voice, potent. “Xavier.”
You're sprawled on the bed, limbs akimbo, skirt bunched up around your thighs. If he bent over, he'd probably be able to catch a glimpse of your panties.
You’re so trusting, all alone with an alpha like him.
But that’s the spell you have over him, so willing to bend to your wishes, give in to your pace. He’d crawl like a dog for you.
Some part of you must know. Maybe that’s why you like him, over all the other alphas. Maybe you enjoy stringing him along like this.
But you look at him so artless, so adoring. There’s no maliciousness in the way you raise your arms, silently demanding his embrace.
And he comes back to you, powerless to deny you anything.
You wind your arms around his shoulder. He lets you draw him closer, catching himself with a hand on the headboard before he collapses on top of you.
Still, you’re chest to chest, so close he can feel the warmth of your skin. One of those teasing little dress straps has slid off your shoulder, limp.
You nose against his throat, tucking into the ultra-sensitive spot right below his ear. Right where his scent gland is.
You place the softest, most tender kiss there.
The headboard bends under his grip, splintering slightly. He squeezes his eyes shut, vying for self control.
“Sweet,” you murmur.
“It could be even sweeter,” he returns. His voice hardly sounds like it belongs to him.
But it doesn’t matter. You’re asleep in his arms. He’s harder than he’s ever been.
...
Debrief is at eight. The two of you have just enough time to stop at home for a quick bite and to change into your uniforms before heading over to the hunter base.
He stares at you on the elevator ride up. The dawn is pink and hazy, a sort of unreality to the waking world that’s carried over from the night. But here in the cool light of the fluorescents, things finally feel close enough to grasp again.
“You are extraordinary,” he whispers. So quiet he’s not even sure if he said it at all.
But you look back at him with some indecipherable expression. Eyes full of longing, trepidation.
You don’t respond.
The base is busy today, despite it being a weekend. A sudden influx of issues has created a perfect storm, everyone rushing to tie up their own odds and ends. Even the meeting room was occupied just before your own, and you watch a few exhausted hunters file out, the door hissing shut behind them.
You pause just before heading in, hesitating.
Xavier places a hand on your shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” you say. Then, thinking better of it, “I’m cold.”
Unconvinced, he still bundles you into his jacket, buttoning it all the way up to your chin. He holds onto the collar, testing your temperature with a hand against your cheek. He feels an answering pressure for just a moment, leaning into his touch before you can catch yourself.
“Hangover?”
You pull away with a little laugh. “I’m fine,” you tell him, heading inside.
You do seem better after that, able to get through the meeting without incident. Sometimes he catches you out of the corner of his eye, pulling the collar of his jacket higher so you can tuck your nose into it.
He knows you’ve been stealing his clothes. Everytime you come over, skimming off the top layer of his hamper. But who is he to judge after pilfering your panties whenever the opportunity presents itself.
He wishes you would just ask. He’d let you raid his closet whenever you want.
To his disgruntlement, you get dragged into a conversation with a few other hunters in the lobby.
It’s mostly posturing. They brag to you about their missions, their encounters with wanderers.
Then one of them puts his hands on you.
It’s a dumb joke that’s gone too far. No one thought it was funny to begin with when he suggested they should start letting omegas become hunters to “encourage alphas.”
A big hand on your waist, he leers. “You sure you’re not an omega, with hips like this?”
Normally you’d have no trouble bringing someone like this to heel. But for some reason, at this moment you go doe-eyed and still. It’s the fear on your face that has Xavier stepping in before he can think better of it.
The asshole falls to his knees. The wet snap of a dislocated shoulder. A shout of pain.
Alpha pheromones fill the room, a suffocating miasma of domination and anger and stress and submission. Even scent patches are useless when tensions are this high, especially in a place as alpha-heavy as a hunter building.
“I suggest you treat your colleagues with more respect,” Xavier warns. “Unless you want to lose the arm altogether.”
His rational mind forces him to release the other man, knowing bloodshed would only cause more problems. Not that he wouldn’t feel justified in ending this lowlifes existence. If you were mates, it would be well within his rights to slaughter someone for laying hands on you.
But you’re not. He has no real claim on you.
And now you’ve left the building.
Blood hot, restless with the need to soothe you, own you, Xavier chases.
He catches up to you rounding the corner, into an alley that cuts through to your street.
You stiffen as he approaches, already on the defense. You only half turn toward him, like you’re still ready to bolt.
He raises a hand, needing to comfort you.
You — flinch.
His stomach drops. “I would never hurt you.”
“You do it all the time,” you say, bitterly. “You just don’t realize.”
Your eyes dart at the sound of another pedestrian. Your hands clutch his jacket tighter around you.
“Then tell me,” he begs. “Let me know so I can fix it.”
“I don’t need to be fixed,” you snap, realizing your mistake just a second too late.
His eyes narrow. He can almost hear your heart racing, the cadence of a cornered mouse.
“Tell me,” he says again, taking a step forward.
You’re nearly hyperventilating now, and he’s torn between the urge to console and the urge to berate you for keeping secrets.
“Xavier. Stop.”
He doesn’t. Incensed, aroused. Instincts all upended. Why won’t you allow him to comfort you when you both clearly need it?
He reaches for you.
You draw your gun.
It feels like the gravity has increased a million times, a sinking pit. His heart feels leadend in his chest. “You don’t trust me?”
“It’s not about you.”
You run.
…
He should have just let you shoot him. That would be less agonizing than … whatever this is.
Three days. You haven’t responded to any of his texts, won’t answer his calls.
He paces outside your door, waiting for some divine intervention to strike him down. The biolock will respond to his fingerprint. It’s just for emergencies, you’d agreed. But this feels like an emergency — he misses you.
What if you’re mad at him?
With the delicacy of a lockpick, he presses his thumb to the scanner. The lock disengages. He turns the knob. Opens the door.
The lights are off, but he knows you’re inside, has been watching your place to catch you if you left. He hasn’t seen you at the windows, or heard you shuffling around. The place is eerily silent, dark.
There, in the center of the living room, you’re curled up in a pile of his clothes. Pantsless, with only a drooping button down shirt on.
It hits him all at once —
Desire so sweet and viscous, he feels mired in it. A black hole sucking away all rationality, leaving him no tether to grab on to, nothing to hold him back from coming over you on all fours and burying his face against your tender throat.
A groan bubbles up from the pit of his stomach.
There it is. The scent of cherry blossom and clean, gentle rain.
This feeling he’s been chasing after for so long. Soul deep recognition. His mate. His mate.
“Mmm.” He presses a kiss against your shoulder, your jaw. “Did I trigger your heat?”
You hiss, burying your face deeper into the soft fabrics beneath you.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’ll take responsibility for it. As long and hard as you need.”
You arch, bumping your hips against his leg. He can’t help the way his hips surge forward in response, seeking out your softness. He’s already soaked through his pants.
But he can’t take you here — it would hurt your back.
“Let me see.” He grabs your shoulder, turning you so he can see your face. “Let your alpha help.”
Despite every instinct in him raging for him to get closer, he pulls back. Enough to meet your cloudy gaze. He says your name. Holds a hand out to you.
You take it.
He carries you to your room, barely cognizant of doing it. Your bed is littered with more of his clothes, as if one nest wasn’t enough to contain your nesting instinct. The sight makes his chest squeeze, makes him hurry to place you in the midst of it all.
He kisses at the exposed skin of your chest as he works on your shirt. He gets to the last button before he realizes. “Is this mine, too?”
“Sorry,” you say, giving him a sheepish smile.
“It looks better on you, anyway,” he says. “But we don’t need anything on, right now.”
You raise your arms for him to strip you. The shirt flutters limply to the floor. He might expect you to be shy, given how you were just minutes ago, but you leave your hands loose at your sides, letting him look.
He drops his forehead against your stomach, heart in his throat.
It’s all he can do to not fall on you like a starving animal.
He takes a deep breath, trying to calm down, but even the air is thick with your scent, the heat of your permeating his lungs.
He can’t stop himself.
He kisses your navel, nuzzles the soft peach fuzz that leads to your groin. He nudges your thighs apart, fitting his shoulders between them. You’re open for him, so needy you’re glossy with it, so soft and tender.
He’s never wanted anything more.
With a flat tongue, he licks right into you. You buck at the sudden stimulus, but he holds you down, dragging your legs over his shoulders and securing them there with strong hands. He licks again, fully parting you this time, exposing all of you for him to taste.
He’s too worked up to be coy with it. It’s desperate and wet, and everything he can give you all at once. You cum suddenly, without build up, it’s all just too much, and you clench around his tongue, gasping as he laps at the new rush of slick, as he tries to coax more out of you.
You’ve barely come down from your first orgasm before he’s working you up to another one, sucking in a way that’s too intense to be comfortable, but so good your thighs tighten around his ears, begging for more.
You fist your hands in his hair and he moans into you, hips jerking against the bed.
He can’t even spare a hand to unzip his pants, one rubbing tight circles into your clit, the other holding you secure against him so he can eat you out uninterrupted. He humps against the mattress, chafing, desperate. He breathes in the humid scent of you and his eyes roll back in his skull.
It’s less abrupt this time. He can feel the pleasure gathering at your core, your legs trembling, your chest heaving. Still, he has to hold you down for it, forcing you to accept the peak you so badly need, that has you curling up around him, clutching him to you with all four limbs as he gives and gives it to you.
He slows as you come down, licks interspersed with adoring kisses against your sensitive clit. He wants another orgasm from you like this, but you shove at him, pushing him off you.
Free from the onset of sensation, you toss an arm over your eyes, turning away from him.
Xavier climbs over you, one wet hand stroking your back. “Did I hurt you?”
The concern in his voice is enough to draw your gaze.
“I'm embarrassed,” you admit, wryly. “I don’t feel like myself, right now.”
He bumps his forehead against yours. Full of tenderness, sympathy. How difficult it must be to be so vulnerable.
He lets a wave of pheromones settle over your both, a gentle soothing shower. He’s never done this for another omega, but it feels right, with you. He’s never cared much at all about being an alpha, but if there’s one thing he’s glad for, it’s that he can offer you a little bit of comfort.
“It's okay to be scared. And it's okay to want this,” he says. “It's okay to feel good.”
You reach a hand up to fiddle with a lock of his hair, biting your lip. He takes it from you with his own teeth, sucking on it until you’re pliable again.
“It's just you and me here,” he tells you. “Don't think about anything else.”
He kisses you slowly, with supple pulls of his lips, drawing your tongue into his own mouth.
“Xavier?” you whisper, pulling back as he nibbles at your jaw.
“Yes, starlight? What can I do for you?”
You lean forward, lips brushing against his ear.
“I want to feel good,” you whisper. “I want you to make me feel good.”
…
He’s still inside you when you wake. Face to face, your leg draped over his hip.
He’d knotted again sometime while you slept, the bulge of it an odd comfort. You hike yourself a little higher against him, testing the tie. You’re still so slick you could probably pull away, if you wanted to. You don’t really want to.
At your wriggling, he smiles, eyes still closed.
“Good morning,” he whispers. “How do you feel?”
“I don’t know,” you tell him. “Overwhelmed? And hungry. And horny.”
He squeezes you, smothering a laugh in your hair. “Got it. Let’s take those one at a time.”
Sometimes you forget how physically powerful Xavier is. It’s so easy for him to maneuver you both out of bed, carry you to the kitchen while he’s still locked inside you.
One arm bracing you, he starts pulling things out of your cupboards. For a moment you worry he’s going to attempt to cook, but he just mixes together a concoction of vitamins and protein powders, heating it to steaming with his evol.
Maybe it’s just your hunger, but as he seats you both on the couch and you take your first sip, it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted.
He’s patient as you drink, playing with the fingers of your free hand, pressing soft kisses to your shoulders. His knot has begun to go down, but he’s still hard inside you, content to just feel you around him. He wonders if you’d be opposed to spending every morning like this.
“I have one of these, too,” he says, tapping the mug. It’s your favorite, the first thing you bought for yourself when you moved out. “I saw it in the store and I couldn’t help myself. I imagined us eating breakfast together, drinking from matching mugs.”
You can see it so clear in your mind, mornings with Xavier. It’s a wonder this is your first. You can’t hold back your smile, picturing him with the cutesy novelty mug. “That sounds really nice.”
Xavier is quiet, after that, letting you finish your drink while he watches you. You meet his eye, give him an inquisitive hum.
“Do you think you would have told me, eventually?”
There’s not a hint of accusation in his tone, just gentle curiosity, but in your delicate state the question makes your eyes well with tears.
“No, no, don’t cry,” he says. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. Everything is okay.”
Xaver places your cup on the table so he can press even closer, take your face between his hands, kiss your wet cheeks, your lips.
“Will you talk to me?”
You give him a nod.
He considers you for a long moment, smoothing his thumb over your brow as he thinks about what he wants to ask. “Did you know we were fated?”
“Probably,” you admit. “Usually I can’t even smell my own scent past the perfume, but I must have recognized you subconsciously. I just knew that I really, really liked you.”
He kisses you again for that.
“How were you handling your heats before this?”
“I haven’t had one in years. I’m recessive.” Your eyes start to well again. “And everything was fine until I met you, and now I can’t control my pheromones and I got my heat and everything is a mess and you hate me.”
His hands squeeze your hips, your thighs. “How could I ever hate you? You’re the other half of me.”
“You’re not mad?”
“I’m not mad. I promise. I promise.”
“I wanted to tell you. I thought about it all the time.”
He looks at you, all soft and warm, so sweet in his arms. His, from the first.
He tweaks your nose, endlessly fond. “I knew.”
For a moment, you’re shocked. He can see the questions brewing as you try to untangle that. But then you settle into him, forehead knocking against his shoulder. Utterly relieved.
“Of course,” you say. “Of course you knew.”
He dries your eyes, ignoring your indignant whine when he rubs at your wet nose, too. You laugh when he threatens to lick it, telling you there’s nothing to be embarrassed about, he savors every part of you.
You push at his face, mortified, grinning. He catches your hands, nipping your pinky.
“You should let me mate you.”
Your smile falls. “What?”
And yet the idea still makes you clench around him.
“Well, it’s going to happen eventually.” He rocks up into you, smiling when you gasp. “And you wouldn’t have to worry about hiding your pheromones anymore. We could live together, spend every day together. You wouldn’t have to make up excuses to steal my clothes anymore.”
He builds to a steady, shallow rhythm. Not enough to disrupt your seat on him, but to tease, coax. You grind back down, hips rolling with his.
“But you–” The thought is interrupted by a soft moan, fingers scrabbling against his nape, tugging at his hair.
Xavier grabs your waist, stilling you. When you jerk again in his hold, not willing to have your pleasure deferred, he takes your chin in his hand, forcing you to meet his eyes.
He rubs his nose against yours. “Tell me.”
It takes you a moment to remember what your concern was. Right now the most pressing issue is getting him to move again.
“You’re supposed to marry an alpha?” It comes out sounding like a question, so unsure of yourself in the face of all that’s happened. Unsure if it even matters to you anymore.
“I never thought you’d be one to give in to social conventions.” He cocks his head, looking up at you through his lashes. “I don’t care what anyone else wants. I want you.”
You wriggle, nervous, unwilling to voice the question that’s on your mind. Why?
But he’d tell you a million times, without shame. You don’t even have to ask.
“I like that you cheat at cards,” he says. “I like that even though you tease me, you still take the time to explain things I don’t understand. I like that you come looking for me when I disappear. I like that you’re kind, and sweet, and silly. I like that you’re brave enough to become a hunter, despite the obstacles. And I like that you’re going to be brave enough to let me help you.”
He starts to rock again, holding you tight so your clit grinds against his groin, so he can please you, keep you close.
“Wouldn’t it be nice? To belong to each other?” He leans forward, resting his chin on your chest so he can kiss your throat. “I want to be yours.”
And, yeah. You want that too.
…
Two days later, and your heat has finally subsided.
You wake slowly, groggy but satisfied. Maybe more satisfied than you’ve ever been.
Xavier is already up, peering at you with soft, bright eyes. One hand resting casually between your things, another palming the skin of your nape.
“Does it hurt?”
In the moment, your endorphins had been so high you felt nothing but pleasure. Now, in the afterglow, his bite aches along with the rest of your overtaxed body.
“Only a little,” you say. “But I’m thirsty.”
A smile that wrinkles his nose. “Your wish is my command.”
He comes back with a glass of water, an electrolyte drink, and a first aid kit, arranging you between his thighs so he can take care of your neck.
“I read about post-mating care. I’ll pick up some bite salve later. And I think you should take at least another few days off. Your hormones will probably need some time to adjust.” He slips a hand into yours. “This will sting a bit.”
You hiss at the cold dab of antiseptic, squeezing his fingers.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I didn't think it went so deep.”
“Don’t be sorry,” you return. “I’m glad.”
He takes a moment to flick through the bandages, selecting one with the utmost care. Only later, alone in front of the mirror, will you realize it’s your favorite color. You feel him stick it on, so gentle it’s almost another caress.
“Xavier?”
“Yes?”
“You’re really mine?”
He kisses your shoulder, right beside his bite. “Always have been.”