Chapter 35

Travis's POV.

I released Arya, and she turned to face me. Beautiful. She was fragile, but I had to admit her powers were commendable.

"How did you know it was me?" I inquired, curiously.

"I could smell you from a mile away," she replied. Arya knew. We hadn't talked about it yet. Didn't get the chance to talk.

"So you've known?"

"Yes—," she paused. As the cold breeze drew in and our eyes locked, she confessed, "I've known from the moment I saw you for the very first time."

I wanted more. More of that look, more of this feeling, more of Arya. More, more, and more. To be looked at not only in the dark, with my baser cravings on display but in the sweet light of day. To be wholly understood by this vessel of perfection. Oh, what I wouldn’t do.

"And that's why you kissed me?"

"Do you think I go around kissing any man?" She sneered, evidently offended. I let out a chuckle, admiring her.

"Did you just laugh at me?"

"I didn't mean to—I'm sorry," I breathed in, her scent filling my lungs. I breathed in more.

Before I could contemplate it further, Arya, glorious and generous in her beauty, opened her mouth. She shaped her lips around a single word, delivered it with a voice that felt like music to my ears.

“Rude.”

This was the moment I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Arya. She was meant to be worshipped. To be pampered and cared for by an acolyte devoted enough to lick the blood of the undeserving from her flesh. The most anyone would be able to provide was a sordid, daily struggle to obtain scraps off the streets.

And that, I would not allow. In the future, however, Arya would need to be marked. Bruises would do for a time, toward the beginning of our relationship, but I would prefer something more substantial. A permanent mark, perhaps. It would be painful, but I knew Arya would eventually come around to this idea. But there were more important things to discuss right now.

"About what happened to David—there's no need to be afraid. You've done nothing wrong," I assured her. Arya averted her gaze to the floor, not looking at me anymore.

“Arya, would you look at me, please? I’m aware it's difficult for you, being accused by everyone when you've done nothing.”

Her brows furrowed as she stared at the floor beneath. I had known from the first glance that there was something that left Arya jaded, distrusting, and touch-starved. It was with that in mind that I made no attempt to sway her further. Curiosity was as deeply ingrained in her as caution, and so long as she felt the decision to seek knowledge was hers to make, she would fold.

Seconds ticked by, heavy with silence. I kept my body language neutral and inviting. Shortly before the minute mark, Arya looked up. Her eyes connected with mine like a force of nature: wild, challenging, violent. She breathed in, subtle but deep.

"You believe that I wasn't the one who helped the man escape?"

“I believe in you, Arya.”

Arya tilted her head, barely enough to cause her auburn hair to shift. Questioning.

“You are innocent.”

Arya sucked in a gasp loud enough for me to hear, the hand on her leg twisting into a grip that had to be painful. She stared at me with wide eyes, searching for some sign of deception, and I let her look. In this, at least, I had nothing to hide. She gulped—delectable—before she shifted so both her arms hung at her sides.

Eyes still locked, she croaked, “How? You don't know me, Travis. We've just met and even though I'm your mate, how can you trust me so easily?”

"I know how it feels, being abandoned by everyone at a very young age. Forced to live on the streets. Stealing, in order to survive. I've been there, and when you stole that watch from me the night we met, I knew you'd experienced the same. You see too much, care too much, and while your darker tendencies may put you in constant conflict with the morals you uphold, it does not break them. Even if you were to be involved in David's escape, it would not be in the manner of which you were accused.”

Arya's eyes shimmered with tears, sunshine on the sea, but none fell. She swallowed again, rougher this time. Lips trembling, voice shaking, she spoke.

“It hurts.”

The moment stretched on, pregnant with the unspoken. Arya was stronger than most would be in her situation, but she was still human. Traumatized by abandonment and survival. Desperate for the warmth of human connection but terrified to be burned. Trauma victims often imprint on those they consider saviors, and Arya was no exception.

When I closed my eyes, I could imagine it. Young Arya, all lanky limbs and wide eyes, following people from town to town, chasing work that never paid well enough for what they’d need. She’d stumble along the streets, odd and empathetic and starving. Able to understand those around her with alarming accuracy but powerless to reach across the void and connect. How often must she have refused to coddle herself, determined to stand strong despite the potent combination of youth and uncontrollable circumstances demanding she be on her knees?

Proud, even as her stomach began to distend and devour itself. Arya was used to the streets, yes, but she need not continue to suffer through it. Not when I was so eager to provide.

Her eyes warmed and softened. Tense shoulders relaxed. Her torso leaned forward, more toward me, while her legs spread to accommodate the shift.

“I know,” I spoke softly, not wanting to hurt my mate anymore.

“I'm sorry, Travis.” Arya's lips pressed together, uncomfortable with the notion, and the urge to ply her with praise for how perfectly she was reacting to my presence surged. Unfortunately, this was neither the time nor the place. I settled instead for, “No, I’m sorry this happened to you.”

"Will you forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive," I smiled.

Interestingly enough, it was the fact that I was willing to accept and forgive her that seemed to hurt Arya the most. She stepped back, lips drawn tight as though hit by a physical blow. I saw a dozen responses fly across her expressive face, the most powerful of which was: I can’t help my circumstances; I’ve done so much that I shouldn't have, I should not be forgiven so easily.

It was the last one that gave me pause. The darkness in it. Arya's potential to do the unthinkable was greater than any I had seen before, and it was abruptly clear that bringing Arya back to the source of her pain and suffering would be the most direct path to metamorphosis.

Arya, when pushed, was even more glorious than I had imagined.

She was vicious, teeth sinking straight to the bone with no care for how the blood-spattered. The ferocity of her, in words alone, filled me with the urge to drop to my knees and worship. I was tempted to take Arya with me, to ply my mate with nothing but decadent desserts and expensive wines until the sugar and liquor made her lax enough to kiss.

Just a touch of the lips, chaste and sweet. A taste of that exquisite violence. And in the end, I didn’t mind if she'd done anything wrong. Arya was the most worthy, wonderful thing in the world, and she deserved a slow courtship. Deserved everything she ever wanted.

But I craved her mind far more than her body. The wrath in her eyes, the flesh in her teeth, the blood beneath her nails. Every wayward thought and borderline impossible deduction. I wanted to see and be seen in return.

First, though, I had to earn it. To prove I was a provider and protector more capable than anyone.

I took a few steps toward Arya, pausing next to her as I said, “No matter what you say or do to scare me away, thoughts much more savory than those are what drove the rest to betrayal. It will not work.” I paused as Arya's wide, disbelieving eyes shot up to meet mine. “Struggle, spit, and bite all you like. I will not abandon you.”

Disbelief hit Arya first, twisting her lips and narrowing her eyes. Caution came next, wrinkling her forehead and wetting her lips. Finally, Arya's shoulders slumped, her relief a tangible thing.

It wasn’t that Arya desired control, but that she desired someone strong enough to take control. Someone who would not buckle under the weight of her responsibilities. Someone who would not run, even when Arya herself gave chase. Lovely. Arya's lips parted, trembling. “You'll get hurt. This isn’t a good idea.”

“And yet here you are, so close to me. And here I am, ready to get hurt.”