I yank open the shower door just in time to get hit in the face with a bundle of clothes.
“Get dressed in there. You’ve shown enough of your ass for the day,” Vander snaps, slamming the door and stomping away.
Looks like I’m not the only one pissed.
Stemming the urge to roll my eyes, I pull my shirt on, the fabric highlighting how sensitized my skin has become. The usually soft material scratches my abused flesh, my pores unhappy with the intense heat.
Wait, I’m complaining about a shower? I just got knifed, swam in the frigid ocean, and climbed a cliff wearing sopping clothes with the cold wind pummeling me.
I check the hand I grabbed her with, not seeing any new blemishes or sensing any weird changes.
I shrug and pull on the rest of my clothes. A twinge in my shoulder makes me pause, but the faint sensation fades faster than a heartbeat, so I file the information away but keep moving.
Pushing open the shower door, the room’s somber ambiance washes over me.
Vander sits in a chair near the little table, the back flush with the wall, his laced fingers propping up his chin while his elbows rest on his knees. The calculating look on his face tells me he’s working hard to solve this new puzzle, but I feel no relief.
He can’t fix this situation any more than he can correct the nonsense going on with his own lifemate.
Movement near the corner of the room snags my attention, a pair of slim legs the only part of her visible, since the hygiene bay wall and food storage block my view of a small sliver of the room. The portion near where she fell.
She shifts again, her tiny heels pushing her further out of sight.
By the time I step where I can see all of her, she’s propped her shoulders on the wall, half-sitting half-lying in the corner.
Even though a cloud of pain surrounds her, her expression remains neutral, the creases around her eyes the only hint she’s suffering.
I fight the tightness in my gut, but it spreads through me, infecting every part of my body, including my toes. The cold, hard floor does nothing to deter me from curling the digits so hard every joint in each foot pops.
The noise pulls her attention to me, her black pupils pushing the orange irises into smaller rings, another sign of her pain. Despite the hazy quality of her eyes, she’s forcing her body to move, an instinctual awareness of her surroundings demanding she get out of the vulnerable position on the floor.
My leg steps forward of its own accord, my tie to her pulling me closer, begging to help her.
She sacrifices a struggling arm to ward me off, my advance clearing some of the fuzziness from her eyes. Her gloved palm motions for me to halt, her shaky fingers a few inches away from her body. While her forearm angles toward me, her upper arm stays tucked against her side.
Guarding her shoulder.
Fuck, she must have injured herself.
Protecting me.
A bitter taste permeates my mouth, the realization making me so angry I bite my tongue to keep from roaring.
This new notion gives me a deeper glimpse into her psyche. I’m not comfortable with what I sense.
She isn’t moving her battered body to stop herself from getting hurt again.
She’s moving further away from us so we don’t get hurt.
Us. Myself and Vander.
Big.
Macho.
Alphas.
Lethal killing machines.
Kept safe by an Omega.
From an Omega.
Understanding her motives only cranks my fury to epic heights. Too many emotions battle for supremacy within me. Common sense tells me not to engage with her right now.
I can’t find my normal sense of humor.
Usually I can laugh at even the most morbid of situations. This one hits too many buttons.
Biting my tongue harder, I stomp to the wardrobe and finish dressing. When I turn back around, she’s sitting in the corner with both hands in her lap, one on top of the other. Pale orange eyes, as clear as the brightly lit sky at sunset, peer at me with such resolve my stomach lurches in response to my resulting churning emotions.
She holds her body rigid regardless of the shaking so obviously trying to take over her small frame.
Vander drops his arms and sits up, the chair creaking as his weight shifts.
Damn, that chair is loud. Or maybe the room is just that quiet.
Before he can say anything, she speaks.
“I will explain to everyone. Please allow me a few more minutes to recover. I wish no harm to any of you.”
A snarl leaves me, her words mocking me in ways I can’t process. Even with Vander’s sharp look and her face going ashen, I can’t stop the fury rolling through me.
“You “wish no harm”? What a load of shit! If you were-”
Vander’s knuckles slam into my jaw, reminding me of our recent scuffle. My booted foot reacts as explosions of pain blast through my skull, snapping forward to kick Vander’s shin. His huff of pain mingles with the detonation of agony in my left side, his secondary punch rearranging my insides.
Grabbing his retreating wrist, I suck in a much-needed breath and prepare for impact. Focusing on his cold expression, my periphery tracks his reddened knuckles’ approach. Seconds before he punches my jaw again, I yank his other wrist and crouch low, not ducking to escape his blow, but to disrupt his balance.
His fist cracks against my head just before I spring forward, barreling my skull into his sternum, mimicking his movement from earlier.
As we freefall toward the hard floor, my senses pick up a distressing signal.
Amidst our cloud of angry testosterone and lethal aggression, her stunned feminine shock stands as a stark reminder of our differences.
Vander’s hard muscles and sturdy bones do little to soften my impact with the floor. His elbow connects with my temple, his rage taking a backseat to survival instincts and years of training.
As we both growl
