Blood of the Covenant (bxb)

Chapter Twenty-Two: Compete

"I don't want you, or anyone, killing my dad if he hits me," Tyler says as he continues to crochet. "He probably will hit me. But that doesn't mean he should die."

"Oh, no," I say, shaking my head. "We wouldn't kill him. The worst thing we would do is turn him."

This seems to take Tyler by surprise. "You can do that?"

"Yeah," I say, wondering how this hasn't come up before. "Biting someone turns them into a wolf."

His brow furrows. "Did someone bite you?"

"No," I say. "It's also genetic. If you have one werewolf parent, fifty percent chance the kid has it. Two werewolf parents, one hundred percent chance. Both of my parents are wolves. I was born one."

"So... if you bit me, I'd be a wolf?" he asks. His question is purely hypothetical, purely in an effort to understand.

"No, actually. Not me," I say. "I'm not full-grown yet. Not until I'm twenty. But if my dad bit you, or my grandparents or April or Darla, yes. You'd turn into a werewolf."

"Do I have to?" he asks. "Being your mate and everything?"

"No," I assure him. "Lots of mates stay human."

He thinks for a few long moments, his fingers flying over the yarn. "I think I'd like to be one," he says. "Not now. But... someday."

I smile down at my own yarn.

"What?" he asks, catching a glimpse of my grin.

"Every wolf dreams of hearing that from their human mate," I say. "You want to be... like me. Like us." I scoot forward on the bed. "You'd have the prettiest wolf form. Real blonds are so rare. I haven't seen many of their wolf forms."

"My hair is brown," Tyler corrects me, tugging at a strand of it.

"A very light, light brown," I say sweetly. "And your big, brown eyes... and you're tall. I bet your wolf form would be big."

"I'm five ten," he tells me, giving me a sarcastic look. "I'm not tall."

"You're tall to me," I say.

"You're, what, five eight? Five nine?" he asks derisively.

"Five eight," I confirm.

"You're more muscular than I am," he accuses.

I look down at myself. "No, I'm not."

"Arm wrestle," he challenges. "And don't you dare go easy on me. Kick my ass."

I smile. We set aside the crocheting and place ourselves carefully around the desk, both of us bending down so the space is workable. We join hands and fidget for a moment, getting a good grip, adjusting the placement of our elbows.

Competitive spirit glows in his eyes. The egotistical nature of youth is inescapable, even between boyfriends.

"Don't go easy," he warns me.

"I won't," I say truthfully.

"Three..." he counts down.

"Two," I answer.

"One."

It starts. His strength is breathtaking. I give it my all, forcing the muscles in my arm to cooperate, my upper body growing hot with the exertion. I realize with a jolt that I am winning. Tyler tries his best to defend his position, to regain the distance lost, but the angle puts him at a disadvantage. It's over in another few moments.

I win.

"Told you," Tyler says, smug even though he lost.

"You didn't try," I accuse.

"I tried like hell," he retorts.

"But you... look better," I say confusedly.

Tyler bursts out laughing. He has to put his hands on his knees, he's laughing so hard. I watch him in bewilderment.

"Ethan," he requests, reaching for me. I stand up and walk toward him, unsure of what is happening. He pulls me in for a hug but keeps his eyes on mine. "You look like an incarnation of Love himself. Like a fucking god. Beautiful. Perfect." He moves his hands to rest on my shoulders, moving his head so he whispers in my ear. "Sexy as fuck."

I don't know what to say. Desire rages through me again, but he pulls away. He moves a bit of my hair off of my forehead with delicate fingers before he sits down on the chair, picking up his crocheting like he didn't just shake my entire existence with just a few whispered words.

He looks up at me as I stand there stupidly, still shell-shocked. "I'm not playing coy. I just... I mean, I could be wrong, but I think we can survive some more time."

I know in my heart that Tyler doesn't need more time. I do. I'm the one whose life is unrecognizable. The extra time, this reprieve from the fact that guys our age are supposed to be constantly hypersexual, is his silent gift to me. It's a strange type of gift, too, because it is not the type I can thank him for. If I thanked him, I'm sure he would just roll his eyes.

I find myself nodding. "Yeah. That's what I was..." I trail off. "Tyler, seriously. You're too good to be true."

My mind is stuck on broken loops, trying to make sense of how this beautiful boy could care for me. There has to be a secret I'm not seeing here.

"I'm your soulmate," Tyler replies lightly. I'm transfixed for a moment by the movement of his fingers on the yarn. So quick and elegant, completely beyond my newborn skillset. "Of course you'd think I'm perfect. I think you're perfect."

"Have you always liked me?" I ask, reaching my own crocheting so the naughty thoughts get easier to control.

"Yeah. Now I look back on it," he says softly. "I just... never let myself think like that. You know?"

I don't know, but I can empathize. I decide to tell him this. He smiles.

"You say you aren't smart, and maybe smart isn't the right word for it," he says after a few long moments. "But you're so... focused on the big picture. Thinking of everyone around us, what they're doing, how they feel. You're compassionate. You're... thoughtful. You're wise. I think that's why people think you're so smart. Because you think of things no one else does."

I think about this. "I'm too tired for philosophy," I say.

He nods to the bed. "Lay down. I'm going to stay up for a bit."

"You don't have to stay in here," I say.

"I will," he says assuredly. "Do you mind if I turn on the TV? Quietly?"

I yawn as I pull back the covers of the bed. "Go ahead."

I snuggle down under the covers, which thankfully only smell like detergent. I feel the bed shift as he sits beside me. The TV starts up very quietly. I think it's a show about people living in the middle of nowhere in Alaska.

He turns off the lights. I don't know how he can see his crocheting in just the faint blue glow of the TV. Then I remember he doesn't need to see it at all.

I scoot so my back is against his leg. I feel his fingers graze the blanket over my shoulder before returning to his crocheting. The soft noises from the TV, the gentle shaking of his body as his hands work the yarn, and the darkness lull me into a badly-needed sleep.