Chapter 131: Suspecting Me
Aurora’s POV
"Then let me help," I whispered, sliding closer until my hip was pressed against his side. "Let me stay and take care of you. Just let me be here."
I felt him stiffen under my touch. For a terrifying second, I wondered if he could smell it. Could he smell the lingering scent of the club? Could he smell the dark, spicy musk of Raymond that I had scrubbed so hard to remove?
"You’re so persistent," he muttered, finally turning over.
He moved slowly, pulling the duvet down just enough to look at me. His eyes were bloodshot, the sea blue dull and tired. He looked at me for a long time, his gaze searching my face, and for a heartbeat, I was sure he saw the lie. I was sure he saw the purple mark hidden just inches away beneath my collar.
He reached out a hand, his fingers grazing my cheek, and I had to force myself not to flinch. His touch was usually so grounding, but now it felt... different.
"Why are you wearing that?" he asked quietly, his eyes dropping to the high, stiff collar of my blouse. "It’s warm in here. You look like you’re suffocating."
My heart stopped. My hand flew to my neck, clutching the fabric tight. "I... I told you, I have a chill. I think I might be catching whatever you have."
He didn’t look convinced. He sat up slightly, the duvet falling to his waist, exposing his bare chest. "Come here," he commanded softly.
It wasn’t a request. It was the Alpha speaking. I moved closer, my breath hitching as he pulled me toward him, his face inches from mine. He didn’t kiss me. He just buried his face in the crook of my neck, right where the hickey was hidden, and took a deep, terrifyingly long breath.
I froze as his nose brushed against the fabric hiding my shame. I squeezed my eyes shut, my heart hammering loudly; I was sure he could hear it. For a second, I was terrified his wolf would catch that lingering, dark scent of Raymond—the leather, the cigar smoke, the raw musk of the club. Werewolves had senses like no other; if there was even a molecule of that man left on me, Oliver would find it.
But he didn’t growl. Instead, he let out a long, shaky exhale that fanned against my skin.
"You’re burning up, Aurora," he murmured, his voice thick with a mix of exhaustion and hunger. "Let me take off your clothes... I want to feel your skin against mine. I need to feel you."
Panic flared in my throat. If that blouse came off, the purple mark on my shoulder would be screaming the truth at him. He’d see the handprints on my hips. He’d know.
"No!" I blurted out, pulling back slightly. "I... I don’t trust us. If we start that, we might end up having sex, and the healer said you need rest. You’re sick, Oliver."
He didn’t listen. He was the Alpha, and right now, his wolf was seeking the comfort of his mate to settle his restless spirit. His hands reached for the hem of my blouse, his fingers starting to tuck under the fabric to pull it over my head.
The walls felt like they were closing in. I couldn’t let him do it. My mind scrambled for a way to stop him, and before I could think, the word tore out of me.
"Red!"
The room went deathly silent. Oliver stopped mid-motion, his hands still gripping my shirt. He pulled back, his eyes clouded with confusion as he looked at me.
"Red?" he repeated, his brow furrowing. "Meaning what, Aurora? Why did you say that?"
I bit my tongue. Shit. I had used my safe word.
I licked my dry lips, my mind spinning. "It... it was just a slip of the tongue," I stammered, trying to laugh it off, but it came out as a pathetic wheeze. "I meant... I meant I’m seeing red. I’m just stressed, Oliver. I’m worried about you."
He didn’t move. He just stared at me, his gaze narrowing until it felt like he was peeling back my skin to see the rot underneath.
"Aurora, you have been acting strange ever since I came back," he said quietly, his voice dangerously level. "You’re jumpy. You’re wearing clothes that cover every inch of you. You’re shouting nonsense words. Is there something you want to say to me?"
"No," I whispered, feeling incredibly nervous. "I’m just trying to adjust. Everything has been so fast... us... I’m just overwhelmed."
He searched my eyes for a long, agonizing minute. I didn’t breathe. I couldn’t. Finally, he let out a sharp, disappointed huff and shook his head. He turned away from me, lying back down and pulling the duvet up to his ears.
"Fine," he muttered, his voice cold. "If you don’t want to talk, don’t talk."
I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat feeling like a stone. I lay down behind him, staring at the broad expanse of his back. I wanted to reach out, to tell him I loved him, to tell him I was sorry for what I had done—but I was scared. Scared that I would lose him the moment he found out.
I lay there in the heavy silence, my heart still racing from the near-exposure. Slowly, tentatively, I reached out and wrapped my arms around his waist. I half-expected him to shrug me off, to reject me for the walls I had put up, but he didn’t. He stayed still, though I could feel the tension in his muscles. I squeezed my eyes shut, burying my face in his back, and eventually, the exhaustion of my double life won. We both drifted into a thick, uneasy sleep.
In the middle of my sleep, a voice pierced through my dreams.
"You’re just a little bitch for me..."
I bolted upright, my breath catching in my throat. The room was dimly lit, despite it being afternoon, because the curtains were drawn.
I looked down at Oliver. He was still asleep, but his head was tossing side to side on the pillow, his brow drenched in a fresh layer of sweat.
Did he just say that? I shook my head violently, my pulse thudding in my ears. No. I was imagining things. My mind was so warped by Raymond’s voice that I was hearing it in my sleep.
I let out a shaky breath and tried to settle back down. As I moved, my hand, which was still draped over his hip, shifted downward. My palm brushed against the front of his boxers, and I froze.
He was rock hard.
I gasped, my hand recoiling as if I’d touched a live wire. He wasn’t just aroused; he was straining against the fabric, his body rigid with a heat that felt different from his fever. Then, a low, guttural moan broke from his lips. It wasn’t the soft, loving sound Oliver made when we were together. It was deep, commanding, and raw.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I had heard of this—Sex Fever. In high-ranking Alphas, when their emotional state was in chaos or their wolf was suppressed, the body sometimes reacted with a primal, uncontrollable carnal drive during sleep. It was a physical release for the mental pressure the healer had warned us about.
"Aurora..." he groaned, his voice a jagged rasp that sent a shiver of pure terror—and a traitorous spark of heat—down my spine.
He turned over suddenly, his eyes still closed, but his hand lashed out with lightning speed, gripping my wrist. His grip was tight, possessive, and his breathing was heavy, like a predator cornering prey.
"Oliver?" I whispered, the name slipping out before I could stop it.
His eyes snapped open. They weren’t sea blue. They weren’t even the dull blue of his illness. They were dark, blown out with a lust so intense it looked like madness. He didn’t see me as his girlfriend right now; he was looking at me through the haze of a primal hunger.
"Don’t move," he growled.