Her jilted Alpha

Her gentle hands

*Gina*

I am trembling with such force that it is a challenge to dress myself. My n*****s are hard little pebbles, aching and painful. Never before has a man's fevered breath wafted over my skin like this. The sensation created is at once alarming and welcome … welcome in ways I had never anticipated or considered. And certainly never desired.

Using one arm, I had braced myself above him when I had dearly wanted to sink down until my lower ribs met his, to feel the pleasure of warm smooth skin against heated flesh.

I wonder if he really is an Alpha and if that is the reason for his affect on me.

With my bloodied clothes in a heap on the floor and a clean shirt and skirt finally properly secured on my person, I trudge over to the kitchen, pour cold water into a bowl, and repeatedly splashes it on my face in an attempt to cool my cheeks.

I don’t have to look in a mirror to know they are burning bright red, they are fairly scalding. I am surprised they are not steaming.

Shaking off the lingering water droplets from my hands, I grab a towel and pat my face dry, feeling more in control, ready to see to the stranger, although he hardly seems one any longer, not after the unintended intimate position I had found myself in with him.

I need to get some broth into him. Then finish cleaning him, in spite of the intimacy of the act.

Never in my life have I blushed in front of a man. I certainly am not going to start now.

But when I return to the room, his eyes are closed and his breathing shallow and even. I am not particularly happy with the relief or the disappointment that simultaneously sweeps through me. Curiosity about him has me wanting to attack him with questions.

Embarrassment that I had marveled at his breath blowing over my flesh makes me want to avoid him.

He can eat later. For now, I need to remove the last of the dirt and blood from him.

Scrubbing my home or tavern has always been my least favorite chore. Odd then that now I am quite looking forward to the task awaiting me.

*Thor*

Consciousness slowly comes to me. I hurt. I hurt all over, but the pain comes in varying degrees. My left shoulder, my right thigh and my right buttock provide the brunt of the agony. I am not certain I will ever move them again.

Before I can groan, growl, or cry out in protest, I become aware of the nearby presence, the gentle touch of a warm, damp cloth, so I concentrate on that, shoving aside the aches, relegating them to the farthest corners of my mind, where I shove all unpleasantness rather than dealing with it.

The linen moves slowly over my chest, and I imagine the holder of that linen counting each rib as the cloth journeys down, until there are no more, only the flat of my stomach, my hip.

Struggling to open my eyes, I manage to create only very narrow slits through which to peer. My rescuer sits on the edge of the bed, a little farther away, still blurry, but not as much, and I wonder why I had ever doubted her gender.

Her hair and clothing could be confusing, but her face, limned by lamplight, is a delicate, refined silhouette. A small button of a nose, a rounded chin and a long slender neck. However, it is her eyes that draw me. I can’t determine the color, the lighting is too poor for that, but her compassion and her concern is evident in the way she studies what the cloth has brushed over. She is gentle with the bruises, not so much with the dirt.

It is a bit of a shock to realize I am wearing no clothing; only a mere sheet draped loosely over my hips provides a modicum of privacy. When I had awakened before, I had noticed very little beyond her. She had captured all my attention, keeping me spellbound. I had wanted to stay awake until her return, but obviously I had not managed that feat, which might have left me disappointed if I wasn’t certain she would not have taken such liberties with me had I been awake.

Now she seems to take great care in working around the flimsy covering, moving it aside as needed to reach my thigh, my calf, my foot, but ensuring my private parts are always hidden away … as though it might take a chill if exposed to the air.

But that seems hardly likely considering the warmth in the room, no doubt a result of a fire dancing on the hearth if the undulating shadows is any indication of what is happening beyond my vision.

Not that I care about any of that. I care only about her and the gentleness with which she touches me, as though I am something to be treasured, protected, appreciated. Not a man from whom women run.

When her work with my lower body is completed, she brings the sheet up over my waist, drops her head back, rolls it from side to side and releases a low groan that would have had me growing hard under different circumstances.

I want to reach out, rub her back, ease her aches as she has eased mine. “Thank you”. I croak.

She comes up off the mattress fast enough to jar the bed, and the pain that has taken up residence in my body protests by increasing, causing me to moan low.

“I'm sorry”. She reaches for me, then withdraws her hand, stepping farther back as though not quite certain what to do with me … or herself, for that matter. “You startled me yet again”.

“It seems to be my way”. I mumble.

She sounds flustered. “I didn't realize you were awake”.

The dimness from the nearby lamp allows me to see her more clearly, but the faint lighting prevents me from gaining a complete picture of her. She is tall, possibly the tallest woman I have ever seen, a couple of inches shorter than I am. Slender, but not in a sickly way. There is meat on her, strength in her.

“Are you thirsty ?" She asks.

It is an effort, but I nod.

“I'll get you some water”. She wipes her hands on her skirt, before leaving the room, and I wish I had kept my need to myself, but my throat is so dry I can barely swallow.

The urge to drift back off to sleep is strong, but I fight it because I don’t want her going to such trouble for nothing, so I focus on my surroundings. Or what I can see of them. A rocking chair by the fire and a thickly padded chair nearby. Porcelain figurines on the mantel. I believe it was the one of a maiden and a Wolf she had thrown earlier, when I had first startled her.

Am I doomed to always startle her ? She doesn’t strike me as a nervous sort; she had braved the rogues to save me. Yet I seem to cause her to be wary. But then what does she really know of me or me of her ?

She might know what I am, and be worried that I might turn without having control of my Wolf.

She is courageous, no doubt. She possessed inner and outer strength that had forced me to reach deep into my own well of determination in order to get myself up the stairs, which might have possibly saved my life. She is kind, gentle, not quite comfortable with my presence. Is she married ? Are there children ? How does she manage ?

Speculating about her saps what little energy remains to me, so I return to my perusal. A dresser. A wardrobe. Not much else. Nothing particularly fancy or decorative. She has simple tastes, this woman who had been out and about when decent folk are abed. Is she a harlot ? If so, she doesn’t dress provocatively enough to sell her wares profitably.

In addition, her way of speaking is too refined for the streets, not quite cultured, but she has definitely received some sort of education. She could have had a position in a noble house, or perhaps one of her parents had. In rebellion, she had run off and now she is here.

What does it matter ? Yet, somehow it does. I do not like the notion of men pawing at her when she risked herself to save me. What if the rogues hadn't dashed off ? What if they had decided to take advantage of her ? And yet they had run off because she was the one calling out.

Who the devil is she ?