Even as he devours my mouth with his own, he sends reassurance through our bond while cuddling little babes in my heart.
His senses expand beyond our nest for the first time since my heat began, dragging my focus with his.
Before I catch more than a slight impression of what’s on the other side of the door, he stands and gathers me in his arms. He sits me in the chair he fed me in, darting across the room and handing me a full bottle of water before opening his wardrobe.
Reality sinks in.
I have no clothes.
I’ll be leaving our den a different person than when I entered.
I’m carrying a new life inside me.
My lifemate is a weapon in human form.
The most unsettling realization makes me feel as though my brain has been scrambled.
I won’t have the armor I donned the majority of my life—no gloves, tights, or dress to cover my skin.
Even knowing it was all a ruse doesn’t stop my heart from pounding when I envision standing in a crowd without being covered.
“Drink,” Jumoke demands as he pulls a shirt over his head, “and quit worrying. You can’t infect them because you were never sick.”
I tip the water to my lips, not wanting to respond to his agitated words.
I understand his frustration isn’t due to my emotions, but I fight the ache his words cause. It hurts to be spoken to with such flippancy.
He’s primed to fight, angry the world has intruded and cut our time alone short. The only gentleness in him caresses the plump babies in my heart. Everything about him screams aggressive Alpha.
He yanks pants up over his amazing cock, and I fight the disappointment crawling up my throat despite the water I gulp down.
By the time I finish drinking the entire bottle, he’s pulled on socks, laced his boots, and donned half a drawer of weapons.
I place the empty bottle on the table with more care than is necessary.
I’ve dealt with stress and misery my entire life. The façade I wore through countless horrible experiences slips over my face as I bolster my heart’s nest, preparing to meet the world’s next catastrophe.
Jumoke’s livid face fills my vision.
After searching my expression and heart for a few moments, he sighs and forces his features into neutrality.
“As long as I have open access to your soul, you can don that mask as much as you need. Just remember, Anastasia, you can’t hide from me.”
He tucks a stray hair behind my ear.
“Also, your stern face turns me on. I’ll be sporting a hard on for the next decade because of it.”
Wetness seeps onto the seat under me. I swallow, wanting to dive into our nest again but knowing we can’t. Each second brings a bigger heap of urgency.
His molten mouth descends on mine. I give as much as he does, throwing my own disgruntlement into the joining of our tongues.
When he pulls back, I lean forward in pursuit of him, the simple act of kissing him piercing through the veneer I’ve perfected through the years.
“Get dressed,” he growls, his hard cock eye level as I sit in the chair. He drops a pile of clothes in my lap before stalking to the hygiene bay.
I slip the huge shirt over my head, comforted by the soft fabric scented with his pheromones.
I hide my smirk under the collar before smoothing my expression and settling it on my shoulders.
He gave me a dirty shirt.
I love it. I want to wear his natural cologne every second of every day.
I crave him.
The child in my womb craves him.
My heart thumps an extended beat as my arms keep tunneling through the sleeves. They stretch to their full extent and still haven’t found the end.
He gave me a long sleeve shirt. His massive size and long arms mean the cuffs hide my hands. Tears form in my eyes, but I don’t let them fall.
This is the male who has eased my mourning by replacing it with joy—he’s seen deep into my heart and done all he can to ease my fears. Not only does he comfort me in the loss I’ve experienced, but will also support me in the moments to come.
He’s offered me a shield in the form of a shirt. It smells of him and covers everything from my neck to my upper thighs, including my fingertips.
With trembling fingers, I fold the cuffs until they hang loosely around my wrists.
I stand on wobbly legs, using the table for balance as I step into the huge pants. These are clean, thank goodness, but before I pull them up my thighs I stop, holding them around my knees.
Jumoke kneels in front of me, startling me since I didn’t hear him move across the room.
Mischievous eyes meet mine, his inner softy locked away in preparation of facing the world.
The damp washcloth in his hands lands on my left knee, but it doesn’t get much use. Enormous fingers dig into my rear as he holds me in place for his tongue. He uses the flat of it to sweep up my inner thigh, no teasing in his licks as he laps up the proof of our coupling.
He tightens his fingers on my butt cheek as he swipes the breadth of his tongue along my folds.
An unnecessary pass of the washcloth follows, the material coarse compared to his previous ministrations.
A squishy plop sounds as he drops the cloth onto the table, meeting my eyes as he takes the pants from my hands.
With deft movements he pulls them up to my hips, only to raise them higher.
No matter what we do, the crotch of these monstrous pants will hang near my knees.
Letting him keep hold of the waistband, I tuck the huge shirt in. He fastens them before pulling a cord on the side, but when even that won’t tighten them enough to keep them from falling, he shoots to his feet and takes a belt out
