When His breathing finally steadied and the fever broke under my hands, I thought I might be able to rest, just for a little while. I'd patched him up, coaxed his raging body temperature down with cold compresses, monitored his pulse like the doctor I used to be in my old world. But the moment his golden eyes opened again, sharp and unblinking, I realized my ordeal had only just begun. He didn't speak right away. Instead, he lay there, his head turned slightly toward me, pupils dilated in that strange way wolves had when they were studying prey. My skin crawled under his gaze. I sat at the farthest edge of the bed, fingers curled tightly in my lap, trying to appear small, harmless, forgettable. But of course, to him, I was never forgettable. I was his possession. His personal omega.
He didn't say a word to me, but I could feel it the weight of his thoughts pressing against me. Who knows what the crazy psycho is planning to do to me now.
