Total pages in book: 202
Estimated words: 193561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 968(@200wpm)___ 774(@250wpm)___ 645(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 968(@200wpm)___ 774(@250wpm)___ 645(@300wpm)
I nod a little, panic making my pulse race. I don’t like the sight of him angry. I really don’t like that I’ve been the one to make him this way with what I now realize were careless words. I’m not someone who talks a lot around men. I never want to say the wrong thing and face their ire. But I’ve just said the wrongest thing I could say, probably. A chill rushes through me, remorse flooding my system.
He growls with obvious frustration, and I resist the urge to flee, instead showing him my throat.
“Fuck,” he clips loudly, and this makes me change my mind and scamper off his lap, ready to run, to get away from the violence that’s coming.
He catches me and lifts me up into his arms and sits on the couch, me in a ball on his lap.
I’m breathless, gasping, and my pulse is racing. I don’t know what to do. He’s not hurting me, but his eyes are so, so angry. I don’t know whether to squirm to get away or stay perfectly still. I just don’t know what to do.
“No, Stacy,” he states, grabbing the back of my head and pulling it under his chin. He begins purring again. Loud. I’m so confused.
A lengthy silence stretches between us, and I know he’s trying to calm himself. I can feel the tension – feel something in my chest, where he’s trying to settle the pace his blood flows through his veins, the speed of his heartbeat, his breathing. His purring is calming my body, but my mind is another story right now.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he finally says, stroking my hair, rocking me, and then purring some more. After a minute of it, he says, “Sorry, babe.”
We’re like this for a long moment together. Him purring, comforting me despite the fact that I was the one who did wrong.
“I… I’m the one who’s sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you, Greyson,” I manage. “I’m v-very sorry.”
He sighs. “I don’t like the idea of you with someone else. You’re mine, Blossom.”
“I was thinking out loud. I won’t do it again.”
He sighs again. “I don’t want you to be afraid to say things to me, okay? You have a past. A past I know nothing about. I just… I really fuckin’ hate the idea of anyone else touching you. It sets off anger, possessiveness. Alphas get possessive about their mates. Heard it all my life, saw it, too. But never felt it until now. This is all new to me, too.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeat. “I was just… astounded with how good you are at… that. I wasn’t thinking, just… I’m sorry I upset you when I was trying to compliment you.”
“You don’t have to keep saying sorry. I’m sorry, wife. I don’t need you to show me your neck. Even if you do something wrong, you don’t have to do that with me. Don’t be afraid of your husband. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say, probably too quickly, because he sighs again, rubbing his forehead with his fingertips.
I’m not being very convincing. And he’s still angry.
I don’t know what to do with myself right now. I’m on his lap and he’s visibly angry. He doesn’t want me to give him space with his anger, obviously, since he lifted me up and put me here on top of himself.
He’s holding me in a gentle hold. I don’t feel like I’m in physical danger, but I don’t know what to do about his anger. I’ve said I’m sorry, and I know that’s usually not good enough for an alpha. It certainly never is for Wyatt even though he expects to hear it over and over. Wyatt also wants actions that demonstrate remorse. He wants you to do something to make up for whatever you did to disappoint him.
What can I do to make this up to Greyson?
I have nothing to give him. I could clean the house, but I already told him I was going to do that, that I’d find it fun, so that’s not going to show I’m sorry. I could bake for him, and I will, but we’ve just eaten and the ingredients here all belong to him or got gifted when Carrie and Bailey dropped all that food off, so that wouldn’t be an adequate gift from me.
I can feel the ball of frustration in my chest in that little section that I know is Greyson’s new place. I want to nurture that little spot. Take care of it. Take care of him.
I do the only thing I can think to do. The thing I do for the girls at home when they’re upset. That I would do for the sick who were close to dying. For the babies when they used to cry inconsolably.
I bury my face into his throat, put my arms around him, and hum the intro, then sing the first song that comes to mind. My go-to – the first song I taught myself.