Savage Awakening (Alpha Pack #2)(22)

He looked like a proud man, she thought. Gazing at the ceiling, muscles tense, tight lines bracketing his fine mouth. He hated being vulnerable in front of his Pack, hated to need anyone. Even them. How she knew this she couldn't say, but she did. Something about him drew her, and she almost smiled at the image of the proverbial moth and flame. Would have if the situation hadn't been so serious.

Then his head turned and those green eyes found hers. Pain and exhaustion shadowed their depths, but his spark of stubbornness refused to give in. Slowly, his lips tilted up. "Well, I must be dead after all," he said softly. "If this is heaven, sign me up, angel."

His dark lashes swept closed and his body went slack. She tried to recall the last time a man had said anything to her that was so... poetic, and sort of suggestive. Her brain came up pathetically empty.

Shaken, Rowan stared at the unconscious man for a few seconds, then returned to her brother's side, telling herself she needed to stay with him. She'd never run from anyone or anything in her life.

And she sure wasn't about to start with a smart-mouthed, redheaded wolf shifter with killer green eyes. She could handle him.

No sweat.

Chapter Five

Aric awoke to the scent of clean sheets and antiseptic. He was lying on something soft, his body cocooned by warmth. A bed, cushioning his hurts.

For a while he lay still, wondering how that could be. He struggled to recall, and foggy images crept in.

Torture. His body invaded. Despair. Discovering Micah. Jax, his brothers, suddenly there-along with a stunning woman. Then he must've passed out.

Was he safe, then? His eyelids didn't want to cooperate, but he finally coaxed them open. When his bleary vision cleared, he could've wept. This was the compound's infirmary. After weeks of hell, he was home.

A wave of emotions threatened to drown him, but he fought it down. No sense to bawl like a damned baby now that he was tucked firmly in the bosom of his Pack. Compared to Micah, he wasn't even in such bad shape. He lifted one hand to his face and realized someone, probably a nurse, had shaved off the itchy beard. That made him feel somewhat better.

"Hey, how's my favorite redhead?" Mackenzie slipped into his room, shutting the door behind her, and came to stand by his bed. The woman had that pleasant doctor expression down pat-friendly and encouraging her patient to spill his guts.

"Ready to party." Christ, he sounded like his throat had been scrubbed with a Brillo pad. "Get your dancin' shoes on and we'll paint the town."

"Sarcastic as always, I see." Taking his wrist between her thumb and forefinger, she did a quick check of his pulse.

"The day I'm not, that's when you really need to worry."

A half smile curved her lips as she released his wrist. "True. But with a minimum of snark, tell me truthfully how you're doing."

Wasn't easy managing a shrug while lying down, but he pulled it off. "I'm alive, healing. I'm good. When can I get sprung?"

"Aric."

"I'm thinking I'll just go chill in my room and-"

"Aric." Pulling up a chair, she laid a hand on his forearm. "This is me you're talking to. It's not the scars on the outside that concern me."

He snorted a laugh, ignoring the twinge of pain it caused all over. "Yeah, and this is me you're talking to, so you know I don't do the feelings and head-shrinking crap. Besides, no one wants to know."

"I do," she stressed.

"You get paid to care," he snapped. "You're a doctor."

Mac's eyes widened as she was taken aback, but she quickly composed herself. "I'm your friend, too, and I know you well enough to get when you're deflecting. I also know you don't take well to lazing around, so if you want to be cleared for duty again, you will open up."

His gut clenched. "You wouldn't."

"Try me."

"Damn it, Mac." Fisting his hands at his sides, he stared at the IV stuck in the back of his right one. A minute ticked by, two, while he struggled with how to put his damned feelings into words. "I'm not going to freeze up on the next op, if that's what everyone's worried about."

"Okay. What will you do?"

"Rip them all to f**king pieces and torch the remains. What else?"

Her expression softened. "Now we're getting somewhere."

"Why? Because I'm letting out healthy anger or some such shit?" He rolled his eyes. "I'm stating a fact-they'll pay."

"Anger can be healthy if it's directed at the right target."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean? What other target would I..." Then he got it. Shit. "You think I still blame Jax for what happened to me?"

"Do you?" She leaned forward, her gaze pinning him to the bed.

"What? No!" But the lie almost strangled him.

"But you did at one time," she pointed out. "You said 'still.'"

Looking away, he thought about it. In captivity, he'd thought about the choice Jax had made, saving his mate's life instead of his brother's. About being hauled into that helicopter, the horror of realizing there was a very good chance he'd never see the Pack again. The endless torture, and yes, in his darkest hour, hating Jax. Cursing him for what he'd done.