Page 81 of Knot What She Seems
I—an omega—protected someone.
I fought an alpha and won.
Twisting the dial and starting the hot water in the sink, I stare at my reflection. And as steam starts to rise from the sink in silver swirls, I smile.
Knowing there’s absolutely not going to be time for the full-on shower I deserve before the admin calls the assembly, I glance around to see what’s available to wash with. There’s disappointingly little. Since I try not to enter this dorm room very often, I haven’t stocked it with more than the bare essentials Ted said I needed to have to get by.
There’s a razor, shaving cream, four-in-one shampoo (disgusting), and a bar of soap. Dammit.
I lather up my hands full of suds from the bar and start to scrub at my cheeks.
At least one good thing can come out of my stupid reveal. I can add some new bathroom supplies in here so I can make pit stops after sweating to death in some of the combat classes?—
Suddenly, the bathroom door swings open, making me jump and soap suds slide down my face and neck like a white beard of bubbles.
Looming in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, skull mask rippling with every breath he takes, is Colter. And he’s taking massive breaths right now…as if he’s pissed.
Immediately and instinctively, I grab the razor and wield it. “What the fuck, man!” I try to verbally chastise him in Teddie’s tone. My wig is still off, but maybe he won’t notice. Who knows what he can see through those tiny eye slits anyway?
But Colter simply shakes his head and steps farther into the bathroom. As if he’s not scared at all of my blade, he turns and closes the door behind him, locking us in together.
My tension ratchets up.
When the massive man turns back to me, I realize that I’m shaking a little bit.
And then he utters one word that makes my shivers turn into wracking jitters.
“Mate.”
My knees start to give out, and he swoops forward, catching me in his massive arms. Cradling me with my feet still limply on the ground.
With all the gentleness he showed me when we were in the forest together, he gently twists the razor from my clenched fingers and throws it into the tub, where it clatters and slides around.
His dark eyes burn fiercely as I gaze up at him, unable to speak, unable to make an excuse. That gaze holds me just as captive as his hands do.
Then, before I know it, he’s somehow got a washcloth. While hugging me against his vast chest, he reaches forward and soaks the cloth beneath the stream coming from the sink. My teeth start to chatter.
“Adrenaline gone,” he murmurs. “It’ll be okay.”
I want to believe him, but my body is rebelling in full force right now. All I can do is cling to him as dizziness and wild emotions flap around within me.
“Breathe,” he coaches.
I try to breathe. Try not to focus on what I’m feeling but only on what I’m observing: in particular, his gloriously large, scarred hand as it dips beneath the faucet.
He wrings more water out of the rag with a single-handed grip than I’d ever be able to get even if I sat on it.
I lean my heavy head back against his bicep as he brings the warm rag up to my face and gently starts to swipe away the bubbles there. He washes my entire face. Slow swirls around my cheeks, soft stripes across my eyes, a sweeping circle around my forehead and chin. All the while, that gaze of his radiates through me as if he’s baring me down to the bone.
Once he’s finished with my neck, he pushes me toward the countertop. “Stand,” he murmurs as his hips bracket mine from behind. And then he drops the rag into the hot water still running from the sink and slowly pulls off my T-shirt. The suit is glaringly obvious then, but Colter doesn’t comment, not even when I tense. And, thankfully, he asks no questions. His massive hands simply search along the back of my neck to find the hidden zipper.
I swallow hard, watching him intently as he patiently peels the suit down enough to free my arms. He’s careful not to bare my breasts, though I can see his massive chest rise in anticipation as the suit gets close—as if he’s fighting temptation.
But some honorable instinct must stop him, because his hands reach only for the washcloth. And then he lifts my arms, washing them from fingertip to base with the same sort of tender attention he used on my face.
While he seems to hold his breath through most of this process, my own breathing has gotten shallower. Not from anxiety but from this display of adoration. Of caretaking.
Goose bumps pebble along my flesh, not from cold or fear, but because I almost feel like I’m floating as he washes me. There’s something deep and profound about it that’s almost spiritual.
