Chapter Sixty-Nine: Carol's POV
When Simon's hand closed around the back of my neck, my entire body went rigid.
The scent that belonged to him crashed over me—ozone before a thunderstorm mixed with cedar, so intense I could barely breathe.
I'd smelled it countless times, in the training yard, at the dining table, in every moment he passed by me.
But never like this. Never with such obvious aggression.
"You—" I'd barely opened my mouth when the heat of his palm pressed against my skin, burning the nape of my neck until it tingled.
His fingers slid into my hair, his other hand found my waist, pulling me forward without hesitation.
"Wait!" I grabbed his arm trying to steady myself, my fingertips sinking into the muscle of his forearm, "Simon, your wound—"
Too late.
I was already straddling his lap, my entire weight pressing down on his freshly bandaged thigh wound.
He's going to be in pain. That was my first thought.
But beneath me he only tensed for a moment, then the hand at my waist tightened, pulling me closer, until I was seated fully on his thigh.
I could feel the lines of muscle in his thigh, and—
Fuck.
My face burned instantly.
"Let—let go of me!" I pushed against his chest, but all those years of training strength meant nothing against an Alpha.
He didn't move an inch.
"Don't move." His voice was dangerously low, carrying that undeniable command.
But I wouldn't listen.
I twisted my waist trying to get off his lap, but the hand at the back of my neck just pressed down—my whole body was forced to arch back, the line of my throat completely exposed before his eyes.
A submissive posture.
"Simon—" I hadn't finished speaking.
Then he leaned down, his lips brushing the corner of my mouth.
My mind went blank in an instant, every word forgotten.
"Don't speak." His voice was rough.
This wasn't a deep kiss.
He didn't claim my mouth the way wolves in the pack claimed their mates, didn't force my lips apart, didn't try to devour me whole.
He just kept his lips at the corner of my mouth, barely touching, only the lightest warmth and the pressure of his breath.
But somehow that made everything worse.
The fingers at the side of my neck moved slowly, applying pressure bit by bit, until I was certain he could feel it too, could count every frantic beat of my heart.
My mind went completely blank.
The room disappeared, his wound was forgotten, the bandages and blood no longer mattered.
The only thing real was that I was kissing Simon Volkov. I was kissing my guardian.
The man who had saved me from that casino eight years ago, the man who'd given me a home, protection, and everything I had in this world.
What the hell was this? What was I doing? What were we doing?
"No!"
My rationality was screaming—this is wrong, we can't do this.
He's my guardian, my father's best friend, the man who saved me from that casino eight years ago and gave me a home.
There were a thousand reasons why his lips shouldn't be near mine, why I shouldn't be sitting on his lap, why we shouldn't be this close.
But my body wouldn't listen.
My body wanted to lean in, wanted his hand to move lower, wanted him to stop restraining himself, wanted—
Fuck fuck fuck.
I bit down on my lower lip, forcing myself to wake up.
"Simon." My voice was shaking, but I said it anyway, "We can't... this isn't right."
He stopped.
The hand at the back of my neck loosened half an inch, his thumb drawing a tiny circle at the side of my neck, and that single touch nearly made me go completely soft.
Then he raised his head, those golden eyes looking straight into mine.
I saw the struggle there. And something close to pain.
I didn't understand. I'd only done what we both knew was right, made the only rational choice.
But why did he look at me like I'd hurt him worse than any silver bullet could?
"You're right." He finally spoke, his voice so hoarse it didn't sound like him, "I'm sorry."
What?
I froze.
I thought he'd say something else, would explain, would order me to shut up, would use that Alpha pressure to make me stop thinking—but he apologized.
Simon Volkov was apologizing to me.
This was more bewildering than that almost-kiss.
"I..." I opened my mouth, but found I couldn't say anything.
I didn't know how to accept his apology, didn't know how to respond.
He was the one who pulled me over, who kissed me first, who turned my entire world upside down.
If it had been anyone else, any other man who dared to do this to me, I would have had my knife at his throat before he could blink.
Marcus taught me how to deal with men who tried to take advantage, I learned well, I wouldn't hesitate.
But this was Simon. The man who gave me everything.
He hired tutors to train me, found doctors to heal me, when everyone told him a human girl wasn't worth it, he still made space for me in the pack.
I couldn't even raise my voice at him, much less do anything else.
So I climbed off him on trembling legs, my movements clumsy like a cub just learning to walk.
My whole body was shaking, from adrenaline, from confusion, and from feelings I refused to think about.
"Keep the bandages dry." I heard myself saying, my voice terrifyingly steady, "You need to rest. If the pain gets bad, go find Clara."
As if those few minutes had never happened.
As if my lips weren't still tingling from his touch, as if my heart wasn't pounding so hard it might leap out of my chest.
I walked toward the door, each step on ground that could collapse at any moment, while he sat motionless in the chair. Breathing heavily, or maybe that was my own.
I didn't dare look back at him.
If I turned around, if I saw him still sitting there, still looking at me with that expression like he was about to break, I might do something very stupid.
Like walk back, like kiss him, like make all of this even more impossible to salvage.
When I finally got back to my room, I went straight to the bathroom and turned the water as hot as it would go.
The water scalded my skin, hot enough to hurt, but I needed that pain.
It gave me something else to think about, instead of constantly reliving the feel of Simon's hands on me, reliving his breath when he spoke against the corner of my mouth, reliving his fingers at the back of my neck—as if he had every right to do that.
But even the scalding water couldn't wash away those images.
Steam filled the bathroom, heat seeping into my muscles, and then I found my hand moving.
Sliding down my stomach, completely out of my control.
I was thinking about Simon. Thinking about the way he looked at me with those golden eyes, thinking about the rasp in his voice when he said "don't speak," thinking about what would have happened if I hadn't pushed him away.
Thinking about if I'd let him kiss me properly, let those hands wander to places they shouldn't go.
My fingers moved on their own.
In the embrace of the water, I closed my eyes, imagining his face, his body, his hands.
The climax came fast and sudden, I leaned against the wall gasping, something close to shame burning in my chest.
God. This was bad. Worse than I thought.
I shut off the water with shaking hands, pressed my forehead against the cool tile, forcing myself to breathe, forcing myself to think clearly.
This was normal. Just hormones, just a completely normal physiological response for a twenty-year-old woman.
If it had been another man, Marcus, Jack, even Maurice with his cold hands, I would have had the same reaction.
This had nothing to do with Simon.
It couldn't.
I wouldn't let it.
That night, I lay in bed, lights off, eyes closed, but my mind was full of him.
I turned over, burying my face in the pillow, trying to think about something else.
Think about tomorrow's classes, the lab report, the training plan Marcus had assigned, but it was useless.
In a daze, I heard someone calling my name.
"Carol."