Page 5 of Mated To The King's Gamma
“You can’t fix it.” Clarice’s voice is gentle but firm. “Not like it’s a wound that just needs stitching up. Some wounds fester for years before they even start to heal.” She tilts her head, watching me closely. “You know this. The question is, do you love her more than your own needs?”
I exhale sharply. “I love her more than anything.”
“Then stop trying to rush her past the pain and just be there. Not as a mate. Not as a man wanting more. Just as you.”
I nod, though I don’t know if I fully accept her words yet. I want to be patient. I want to be what Abbie needs. But damn it, I miss who she was before she left me for him. I miss holding her. Miss seeing her smile, seeing her trust me without hesitation, she did once after it took me ages to get her to trust me, and now it’s like she never did.
Clarice must see the war on my face because she sighs and gestures toward the plate of biscuits on the counter. “Here. Take these back with you. Tyson will want one when he wakes up, and something tells me Abbie hasn’t eaten much today.”
I hesitate, then grab the plate.
Before I turn to leave, Clarice steps forward, placing a hand on my arm. “She’s scared of herself, Gannon. Not you. She is scared of what you’ll make her feel when all she knows is pain.”
“I would never hurt her,” I tell her.
“And she knows that, but her body and her instincts don’t. Those are the parts of her that remember, and those are parts that remember only pain.”
I meet her gaze, my throat tightening. I’m not sure if knowing that makes it better or worse.
With the plate in hand, I return to our quarters, the anger still simmering, but the need to take it out on something fading. I reach our door, and push it open quietly only to go into a panic when I see what she has in her hands.
2
The guilt that gnaws at me as he leaves brings tears to my eyes. He doesn’t deserve a broken mate. How he even wants me after everything is beyond me, and still, I can’t stand being touched. Even the briefest of hugs has memories crashing into me. I am useless to him. Tyson continues to stir, and I rub his back until he falls back into a deep sleep.
When I am sure he is out, I move off the bed and start cleaning up. He never said anything, but I know the mess we made upset him. Maybe if I clean the place, he will forgive me? Some part of me knows it is because I’m inadequate, not enough for him. I’m not even enough for myself. I’m not anything, nothing. Never enough for anyone. My mere existence is to be used and tossed away. The only thing I am good for because taking it is the only way he will get anything from me.
How long before he gets sick of waiting? How long before he turns out like the rest of the men who have stumbled into my life? That thought scares me and leaves me trembling as I scrub the tiles in the bathroom.
I scoure the bathroom until there are nearly no bristles left on my scrubbing brush. The sun is beginning to rise, and I look to the window when my shadow cast along the wall. I furrow my brows in confusion. How long have I been here?
It never ceases to amaze me how I can lose track of time as if on autopilot. Shaking my head, the bathroom is so clean it almost glistens, and the bleach I spent most of the night and early morning inhaling burns my throat and nose. It is all I can smell. Packing up my cleaning supplies, I wander back out to find the bedroom door open again.
Gannon opened it when he left, and I shut it while I cleaned only for it to open again. I thought I closed it? Walking over to it, I shut it but it is pushed inward.
“Door stays open, Abbie. I can’t hear you with it closed,” comes Liam’s voice.
Peering at the door, Liam nods once from his seat across the hall, then moves back into his room, settling into his chair and lifting a newspaper like he hasn’t just assigned himself as hallway security.
“Did Gannon ask you to babysit me?” I ask him.
“No, I offered,” he says flatly, not looking up.
I stare at him for a moment, biting the inside of my cheek, and step back into my room. Slowly. Deliberately. I push the door until it clicks shut behind me.
It slams back open so fast I flinch, the handle bouncing off the wall with a crack. Liam storms in like a hurricane in boots, eyes wild, jaw clenched, his entire body vibrating with irritation.
“You have got to be kidding me,” he growls, pointing at the door like it personally offended him.
I fold my arms, but I take a step back.
“I told you to leave it open. What part of that sentence was unclear? Should I write it for you next time? With crayon?”
“You don’t need to be an asshole,” I snap.
He laughs—sharp, cold, and utterly unamused. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m being nice.”
He steps closer, and I instinctively take another step back, my hands brushing against the edge of the dresser behind me. His eyes flick down, catching the fear that flares in mine, and something shifts behind them, his madness doesn’t soften, but it focuses.
