Page 59 of Such a Feral Little Lamb
Mason slips my jacket from my shoulders before he coaxes me to my feet. I lean on him as he unfastens my trousers and shoves them down, leaving me in a T-shirt and my underwear.
“There are worse things out there than zombies,” he murmurs. He looks frightfully pale even in the flickering candlelight, and I’m struck by the sudden urge to comfort him, too.
I don’t. I let him usher me into bed, then watch drowsily as he undresses and climbs in beside me. He wraps himself around me like he did last night, and the weight of him, the warmth, is just enough to quiet my mind.
“What if they come here?” I murmur.
“Who? Otto? Dane?”
“Whoever took them.”
Mason kisses my forehead and tucks me closer against him. “I told you, little lamb. I’ll kill them. I’ll kill them all just to keep you safe.”
I wake with gritty eyes and the faint, hazy headache that tells me I’m running on too little sleep. Mason is still wrapped around me, but as I begin to stir, so does he.
He blinks dark eyes at me, and I sigh, resting my forehead against his for a few seconds.
“Did I dream it all?”
“Dream what?”
“Dane’s missing. Otto, too.”
“I’m afraid not, little lamb. You want to go search?”
I hum, then nod. I need to. Fuck the zombies. I told Otto I’d take him home, and I meant it. Right now, I don’t care that we haven’t managed to clear this town. They’ve got the zombies in hand; we need to worry about our team.
“Come on,” Mason says. He runs his hand down my spine once before he untangles himself from me and gets to his feet. I flinch at the cold air that makes its way under the duvet, and Mason laughs quietly.
“’S cold.”
“It’ll get colder still.” Mason strides into the other room, out of sight. “The last few winters have been icy.”
I climb out of bed and dig another pair of trousers out of my bag. Before I can put them on, Mason is back, and I only protest a little when he steers me into the makeshift bathroom.
The water in the bowl is hot again and I narrow my eyes at him. “You did this the first time I was down here, didn’t you?”
“I like hot water.” Mason gives me a fleeting grin. “But I thought it might encourage you to stay. Now, stand still.”
I frown at him, heat creeping into my cheeks when he tugs my T-shirt off and submerges a cloth in the hot water. He has soap too, light and fragrant, the scent filling my nose as Mason lathers up the cloth and then presses it to my skin.
I gasp at the first gentle touch, and his eyes dart to mine. He isn’t asking if this is okay. It’s what he wants to do—what heneedsto do, I think, by the way he drops his gaze and rubs circles over my skin. I tremble and reach out for the table to steady myself.
This feels…
This feels like being worshipped.
Mason doesn’t touch me, except for the cloth, which he uses to clean me from head to toe. Despite that, he’s not clinical. His eyes devour me, breaths quickening as he steps around me to wash my back.
“Mason…”
“Little lamb?”
“We should—We need to—” We need to get back out there. I glance at myself in the mirror. My mouth is half-open, eyes heavy-lidded. It’s not about sex. I’ve never been touched like this before.
He finishes and places the cloth in the water, which still steams. I see him standing behind me in the reflection of the glass and watch as he inclines his head, pausing with his lips a breath away from my shoulder.
His eyes meet mine. They glitter. My chest heaves with each breath.
