She and Hers

5 - Threads

Sam

I'm screwed.

And not in the way I want to be. Holden reeks of fucking the female that has me tied up in knots and my wolf is reacting to it all like an overgrown pup. Excited, he rolls on the ground, lolling in the scent of the people he's decided belong to him. At the same time, Holden is crying furious, dejected tears. His emotional pain scores my battle-scarred heart as if I haven't spent the last two decades tracking and hunting down the absolute worst of human and wolf scum.

"You wanna talk about it?" I offer the man, rubbing his back as he hides his face in my shirt.

Holden sniffs and pulls back, refusing to meet my eyes. Clearing his throat, he steps back, jamming his hands in his pockets. "No," he coughs again and straightens his shoulders. "It's alright. I'm overreacting and shit." He takes a deep breath, shaking his head, guarding himself against the pain I know he feels.

My stomach curdles. I hurt him. I know I did, the day I shoved my cock down his throat, then took off on him. Now, just days later, he's been emotionally whipped again.

I had a girlfriend, a human, for a couple of years when Hanna was young. She was nice, pleasant, and the sex was good, but we didn't love each other and she broke it off when she got a job offer to relocate to Tokyo. It was growing stale, anyway. It's hard to maintain a relationship when you're traveling for missions and towing your daughter along with you.

I never felt this way about that girlfriend. Holden's pain is my own. My wolf is whimpering, pacing. The foul stench of his hurt stains my nostrils and makes the back of my throat swell as if I'm having an allergic reaction.

I wrap my hand around the back of his neck and bend my head to capture his lips. Lust roars through me. My wolf, dumb asshole, has stopped cavorting and is eyeing Holden with lustful intent. I push all of the feelings away. This kiss isn't about seducing Holden's body. It's about comfort, offering a solid presence to this happy male who looks broken.

When his hands drift to my fly, I stop him. "No, baby," I murmur against his mouth. "We have to go back to the party, right?"

He clears his throat again. "Yeah, ah... yeah." He starts to step away from me.

I catch his hand. "Later, I'll come find you," I promise him. "We'll talk. Hang out."

Some of the sorrow drains away from his expression. "Yeah," he replies. "That would be nice."

I lift his hand to my mouth and press a kiss on his palm. "Later," I say again, a promise.

Holden nods, some of the happiness restored in his gaze. "Later, Sam." Turning, he drifts back toward the ballroom.

I give myself a minute. Can't walk right now, anyway. When I manage to take a few steps without wincing, I return to the ballroom, only to see my female in the center of some witchery shit.

Dozens of white candles make a wide circle the size of half the dance floor. The other lights are dim, leaving the glow of the candle flame to make an eerie ring around Chaira.

She is standing in the absolute middle of the ring, fully nude, her pale skin glistening from the candlelight as if covered with diamond ash. The only color is her cheeks, her eyes, and her deep red lips. She is utterly gorgeous, and as I, along with a hundred other pairs of eyes, stare at her, I understand why so many others of the paranormal races view witches as dangerous.

Chiara DeVitoria could sink ships with that face, and the cold, remote look in her eyes, as she surveys her queendom, makes it clear that she would, if she wanted to.