Werewolf Compilations novel Chapter 70

In the morning when he's gone off to do whatever an Alpha does, I near his bedroom doors hesitantly as if the ghosts of the people he's slain are pushing me towards them. My hand grips the handle but I let go as if it is coated in silver. He might kill me if he catches me in here. Okay, I know he won't kill me, but the man still frightens me, and he takes away things I love. He may just kill my mother if he catches me in here, but I grip the handle again and push down, letting the door pull me inside with it.

It's cold inside and dark. I feel for the light-switch, then I press them all down, the room dimly brightening up, just enough for me to move around. The windows are covered by thick curtains and I don't bother to move them.

His scent is everywhere. It's sneaking up my legs, running its hands through my hair, kissing my lips, and pulling down my underwear. His scent plays with me and begs me to come lay down, but I try to ignore the hypnotic smell and continue on with what I came in here to do. My things. I've searched the house for them—coming up empty handed—so I've decided that they must be in here, hidden off in a drawer or stuffed in the closet.

I breathe in, making a great mistake. The air, tainted by his everything, floods throughout my body and rubs up against me. The air wraps around my arms and leads me towards the bed. I stand before the dark bedding and milky white sheets like a woman walking across the scaffold. I reach out and run my palms over the blanket—my mind going wild, drifting off to exotic places. How Julianna slept in her mate's bed and didn't beg for him makes me praise her. Just touching the sheets makes my hands shake. All the things I convinced myself I could live without. . . I need them now. I want them.

Like a dead woman lying in her grave, I fall against the bed and let the sheets wrap around my ankles, holding me down. I want to be naked in this bed. I can't help it. Every part of my body wants this—the bond bringing me to such desires, a virgin in the sheets of sex. My hands reach out and grab onto whatever they can snatch, my right gripping bedding and my left feeling a pillow. I drag the pillow to my body—his lips have touched this pillow—but looking beyond, I freeze. My heart stops.

In the sea of white in the heart of the bed, a splotch of purple sticks out like a beacon. I sit up in all my glory and take the piece of fabric into my hands, knowing it very well. This is my pajama top, the one I couldn't find last night, the one I slept in the night before. It smells like me, the scent slicing through the addiction that is his.

He took it from my bedroom and now it is in his bed. A deep, wonderful sensations spread throughout me. He needs me. He needs me enough to keep my clothes in his bed. I don't understand. Why does he hate me if he needs me? Does he hate needing me? It's back to this, isn't it?

I'm just not good enough.

He has her because I'm not good enough. I'm not pretty enough, not captivating enough, not sexy enough, not enough. It's not that he doesn't want a Mate—maybe he does, just not me. It's back to this. It's my fault. It's my fault I'm not good enough. If only I were like the other girls, right? If only I were them. If only I brushed my hair every morning and wore tight clothes and acted properly and starved and wore makeup and... But even then, I couldn't change my face, or the size of my breasts, or the thickness of my hair, or the color of my eyes, or the sound of my voice.

I feel my throat closing up.

I bet he makes her wear the top, pretending that the scent is coming from her instead. I can make her leave, I can hold her from him, but that doesn't make me any more desirable.