Page 110 of King Luna

Padding to the bathroom, I shut the door as softly as I can. I hand-comb my hair as I pee and brush my teeth, struggling to stay focused with the unease in my heart.

Then I freeze.

Fuck. Our bond swings in a way I’ve never felt before—like a speeding pendulum. Hurrying off the toilet to wash my hands, I scoop water into my mouth, swishing as quickly as I can to rinse any remaining toothpaste. But it’s happening too rapidly; our bond is spiraling, descending.

By the time I lift my head from the sink, my eyes widen back at me in the mirror with Noah’s plummeting emotions.

His pain is so severe that it feels like someone is hurting him.

I sprint from the bathroom to find Noah lying perfectly still in bed.

But our bond screams just the same. I grip the hem of his loose, black T-shirt I threw on as pajamas, unable to keep my lungs from tensing around each breath.

“Noah?” I whisper.

No response.

I take another step, attempting to get a clearer view of him.

“Noah? Are you awake?” My voice shakes, but not as heavily as Noah’s shoulders.

His back is still to me. But now that I’m frozen in place and holding my breath, I can hear his rapid pant.

And my own fears explode.

What if he’s having a health crisis?

Time slows. My foot inches off the ground, taking forever to complete a single step forward to reach him. Once I’m a few steps closer, I find his eyes staring deep into the wall.

I gasp. “N-Noah? Are you dissociat—”

Noah jerks toward me the second he spots me—like he's ready to attack. I yelp, stumbling backward.

Wild, furious eyes stare back at me from the bed. “Shit! Don’t sneak up on me.”

Hugging our baby, I pant in pure panic. Who is this I’m looking at?

I inch closer, desperate to ease the fear from his tightened features. “I-I didn’t, I was calling out—”

“Stop! Don’t move!” Noah growls.

I come to an abrupt halt at the end of the bed.

Noah grips his head, sucking in rapid, laborious breaths. “Fuck, sorry. I’m freaking the fuck out. I don’t want to hurt you like I hurt my mom.”

I bite my lip, wavering on what to do next.

Noah isn’t dangerous, especially not simply because he has PTSD. But he has a point: I hurt him badly during a flashback too. The scar on his forearm lightened from how much I’ve tried to heal it, but it still makes me sad. I don’t want Noah to feel more guilt.

Except I’m not seeing or smelling an angry Alpha.

Right now, there’s a shivering, hurt, Omega-scented wolf in our bed, fighting to the edge of his life to seem like a threatening Alpha. Not because he’s part Alpha, but because there are many days he’s an “Alpha” as a protection method.

Anguish burns my body, reverberating down to my bones. It takes everything within myself to steel my voice. “What do you need?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then, can I hold you, love? My instincts are dying to protect you.”

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