Page 27 of Such a Feral Little Lamb
He doesn’t move away as I unlace my boots, but when I bend to take them off, he falls to his knees. My lips part, and he lifts my leg.
“Here,” he says, pulling off one, then the other. I don’t even register consciously telling my legs to lift. He tugs off my socks, too, then pushes them into my boots. “Need help with anything else?”
Help?My heart sits somewhere in my throat. His touch on my feet, my calves, is so gentle. Mason gets to his feet and his hands move towards my waistband but stop short of touching.
“Any help?” he repeats. “You look exhausted.”
“Yeah, I-I didn’t sleep.” I take a step back. “I’m fine. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
He doesn’t look away as I strip off, but his gaze isn’t heavy in the way Dane’s is when I’m fully clothed, either. Not even when I’m naked, when I’ve dragged out a flannel to wipe myself clean. I’m careful to clean my face last because I’m not kidding about what I said earlier—I definitely got brains on me.
I stare at my exhausted face in the mirror. My dark eyes are red-rimmed with how tired I am, and even though I’ve been out in sunlight all day, there’s an ashen tint to my dark skin. My curls are all a mess, longer than I’d like, though not long enough to be a danger. I think. I sigh and reach for my clothes. I can hardly think at all.
I’m practically swaying on my feet as I try to dress in clean clothes. Mason holds me by the hips. His fingers don’t dig in, and his hands don’t wander. “Let me help.”
I make a frustrated sound. Fuck, I’m too tired. My mind is going all fuzzy at the edges, and the thought of traipsing all the way back up those stairs seems like an impossible dream.
I can’t stay down here, though. Ican’t.
“Yeah, okay,” I say roughly, and Mason murmurs his agreement. He lets go of me to grab my underwear and holds it out so I can step into it.
Part of me rebels at the treatment, eerily familiar as it is to the handful of times I’ve been truly, seriously injured.
No.
Even those times, no one was as gentle as this. Mason tugs my underwear up around my hips, careful not to let the elastic snap against my skin. He helps me with my joggers next, then gently urges my hands up to pull my T-shirt over my head.
I sway into him when it’s in place, hands landing on his forearms, and I breathe in the spicy scent of him. “You’re…” I begin. I don’t know what I mean to say.
“I’m what?” Mason asks, because of course he does; why would he leave it alone?
“I saw you,” I say. “Didn’t I?”
His fingers ghost my cheek and down to my chin. “You did.”
“You ran.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t mean for any of you to see me. But you did. You see me, Isaac.”
Not right now. My eyelids are heavy, and it’s hard to keep my eyes open. Mason notices and chuckles.
“Maybe not right now,” he says, in line with my thoughts again, and has me leaning against the table as he packs up my things. I startle awake when I think of my bat, but he never touches it.
“Take it,” he says when he sees me looking. “You’ll feel safer with it up there.”
Doubt gnaws at my stomach. “Is it really safe up there?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t let you stay up there if it wasn’t.”
“Let me?”
We’re back in the bedroom and Mason pauses in the act of reaching for the door handle. He steps in close to me and for a moment, I can’t catch my breath.
