Alaric's hand moved to his pocket. He pulled out a clean handkerchief and reached for her face.
He knew he shouldn't. He should be carrying the chairs to the storage shed and staying away from her as much as he could. Ronan's threat rang in his ears. Still, he reached for her. Again.
Suddenly, his wolf lunged.
Not the steady pull he had been fighting all night , but a full-body surge. Savage, visceral and sudden. Screaming at him to close the distance, press his mouth to the crown of her head and breathe her in until he had memorized every note of her. The hunger was animal and total and had no interest whatsoever in rules or consequences.
Her blood.
Her scent had undone him from across the hall, warm and spiced, honey and distant cinnamon, but now here, close, with her nose bleeding and her breath uneven, it hit him like a fist to his gut. His wolf had recognized her blood, and the urge to protect her, to keep her safe, roared like a beast unleashed.
"Mate."
The word rose through him before he could stop it, settling into his bones with the weight of something irreversible. Not a question. Not a suspicion. A verdict.
He froze. His fingers, an inch from her skin.
The handkerchief trembled in his grip. His entire body locked in place, caught between the pull forward and the knowledge that if he touched her again, he wouldn't stop. He'd cup her face. Wipe the blood himself. Pull her close and damn every consequence that followed.
No! He yelled back at his wolf in panic.
He pressed the handkerchief into her palm instead, careful not to let their fingers brush. Stepped back one pace, then another, until the corridor wall was at his spine and there was distance between them. But it wasn't enough.
"You should go," he swallowed. "Get that looked at."
She looked down at the handkerchief. Then up at him. Her pale silver-gray eyes went wide, searching his for answers to questions she couldn't find words for. He held her gaze and gave her nothing. Kept his face as blank as he could manage.
She nodded, small and uncertain, then pushed off the wall and moved past him.
He didn't breathe, didn't move, until he heard the powder room door click shut.
His hand, the one that had held the handkerchief, the one that had come within an inch of her face, still shook.
He drew a long, slow breath, then gathered the chairs, stacked them and continued to the storage shed at the edge of the estate's service yard.
*****************************************************************************************************************
Away from the lights and the guests and the careful performance of the evening, he let the chair stack fall the moment the door closed behind him. His knees buckled. Not from the weight of the chairs, but from the weight of his wolf's demand.
He lurched, catching himself against the nearest shelf, fingers clamped to its edge as his head bowed and his chest heaved. His wolf pressed harder now. It slammed against his ribs with a ferocity that stole his breath, claws raking the inside of his chest, demanding he return to her. To put himself between her and whatever had made her bleed. It wanted her. It had decided. It didn't care what that cost.
"Mate!"
Louder this time.
He pressed both palms flat against the shelf and held there, breathing through his teeth, forcing each exhale long and slow. It didn't work the way it usually worked. Her face kept breaking through. The blood on her upper lip. Her eyes searching his like she was looking for something he wasn't allowed to give.
He had a mother and a family still alive because he had spent every day of his adult life making himself too small to be worth watching. One wrong move. That was all it took. He had watched Jax make examples of people for less. For a look that lasted a second too long. For being in the wrong place at the wrong time. For being connected to someone who forgot the rules. And this was more than a wrong move. This was a taboo.
But his wolf didn't care about any of that.
He drove his fist into the wall. Once. Twice. Stone dust drifted down. He stood there, forehead nearly touching the stone, breath tearing in and out of him in ragged pulls. Pain cracked across his knuckles, bright and immediate, blood spilling hot from his skin. The wound was already closing, but the wall wore a new spiderweb of cracks and his wolf became blissfully quiet, giving him a moment of reprieve.
He slid to the floor, gasping, and sat in the silence.
"Alaric."
His head snapped toward the door.