The Alpha's Protective Mate

37

Charlotte Sanguinite

I’m trying not to think too much about how nice his large hand feels on me. I can feel every finger resting on the side of my belly. I can also feel the way his hard chest is pressed against my back. Paying attention to this conversation isn’t easy by any means.

“Okay, then I’ll just drop by in the mornings—”

“I’ll take care of Charlotte’s wounds myself,” Robert clarifies emphatically. “She doesn’t need your help.”

“Actually,” I start, “I think—”

“I know how to clean wounds. I’ll get the necessary supplies,” Robert cuts me off. He’s been doing a lot of that since he met Ricky.

“Are you the one who bandaged the wounds on her face?” Ricky questions him seriously.

I’m the one who answers. “Yeah, he did that.”

“It was close to professional,” the vet approves, smiling. “I think you’re in good hands, Charlotte. If there are any issues, let me know. I’m just a phone call away. In the meantime, I’d still like to show your friend how to go about cleaning and disinfecting the wound. Just to be safe.”

He takes out the supplies in his kit, and Robert doesn’t argue this time, watching intently as Ricky disinfects the wounds all over again and washes them before applying a bad-smelling orange ointment and then taping gauze over them.

As he packs up, he says, “Whoever did this to her, I hope you dealt with them.”

He’s talking to Robert, and the latter looks dissatisfied. “Not yet, but I plan to. Soon.”

My hand tightens on his arm, but he doesn’t look at me.

Is he planning to go after Arabella?

As Ricky is about to leave, Robert suddenly says, “I’ll walk you out.”

The vet gives him an odd look, but as Ricky passes in front of me, I see the way the corners of his mouth are strained.

As soon as the door closes behind them, I pick up Mano. “Sorry about the scare, baby. I’m really okay.”

However, my cat is behaving anxiously, rubbing against me and purring with an aggression I’ve rarely seen. I pet her, leaning back on the couch, my head aching. I must have slipped into sleep because when I come to, I’m being shaken awake.

“W—What?” I cry out, alarmed.

Robert’s face is close to mine, and when he sees my indignant response, he sighs in relief. “I thought you passed out.”

“I fell asleep.” I try to push him away, but he takes my hand.

“I’ll carry you to bed.”

“I really don’t need you to—”

But he’s already lifting me, as if I’m his bride and he’s carrying me over the threshold. I think if my face gets any redder, I might start resembling a tomato.

He tucks me under the sheets before sprawling beside me, much to my shock.

“You—You’re not going home?”

I watch Mano jump onto Robert’s stomach and curl up there, tucking her face under her tail.

“You’ve had a traumatic experience.” Robert’s fingers comb through my hair as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I’m going to watch over you tonight, and tomorrow, and when you’re better, we’ll talk.”

I should resist, but instead, I let him wrap his arm around me as I mumble, “Just for tonight.”

“Sure.” His chest vibrates with silent laughter, but I lean into him. He smells nice. He smells safe.

With his fingers scratching my aching scalp, I find myself drifting off, exhausted by the day’s events.

******

When I wake up, it’s to the sounds of sizzling bacon and my rumbling stomach. My whole body aches. I groan, trying to turn over, each side hurting more than the previous one. Giving up, I sit up gingerly. The skin on my left cheek is burning under the gauze, and I try to bear the pain. Sitting on the side of the bed, I study the floor blankly.

Arabella showing up. The attack. Robert saving me.

The memories trickle back as sleep fades away, and my soul feels heavy inside me. Hating my sister would be so easy. She has done plenty of things to me over the years for me to despise her. I hated Clyde but never her. In a way, she’s still my weakness.

Why haven’t you killed yourself yet?

Arabella’s words eat at me.

Then, a bitter laugh leaves my lips.

Indeed. Why haven’t I?

I can feel my thoughts taking a dark turn, and I look out the window at the gray sky, my fingers digging into the bed sheet. I may not be as strong or as successful as those of my kind, but I dragged myself out of a s**t situation, and I survived. Sometimes, survival is enough. Just because my life is not as bright as Arabella’s doesn’t mean it’s not worth anything. I did become something. I became a survivor.

The darkness in my heart ebbs away as I remind myself of my own small successes and the goals I’ve set for myself.

My head lifts when I hear voices from the kitchen. Slowly getting to my feet, I make my way over to where all the mouth-watering scents are coming from. I thought Robert would have left by now, but clearly, he’s still here.

“Rob—” I begin, only to fall silent at the sight of my kitchen. It’s a mess. I see Mano lapping at a broken egg on the floor while Robert seems to be trying to fry something.

“It’s burning on the bottom!” he says, his voice frustrated. “This is my tenth egg, Aisha!”

A woman’s voice comes from his phone, which is propped up against the backsplash. She sounds just as irritated. “I keep telling you to lower the flame and splash some oil on the egg!”

“How can I splash oil on an egg?!” Robert might be at his wits’ end. “I tried, and the pan began to overflow!”

“Not cold oil, you moron! Use your spatula and gently toss the hot oil on the egg to cook the white!”

“What about the burned part of the egg?”

“Lower the stupid flame! God, Robert! How can you not know how to do something as simple as frying an egg?!”

“It’s not as easy as it looks, okay?” Robert snaps back.

“Even Toby can fry an egg,” the woman apparently named Aisha says, annoyed. “And he’s a kid. If you can’t do it, just order breakfast in for her! You do it for yourself all the time!”

“That’s not the same as cooking for her! I want to make her a nice breakfast. I’m trying to take care of her.”

“Then take care of her by not giving her food poisoning. That would be the kinder thing to do,” the woman retorts.

Robert seems to be in no mood to listen. “What about scrambled eggs? Those are easy, right?”

“Oh, dear God, Robert! The woman just narrowly survived one traumatic encounter. Why are you trying to saddle her with another? You can’t cook. Your cooking might just land her in therapy.”

“If you just want to criticize me, then go away,” Robert says, clearly upset now. “I’m trying to look after her, and you’re not being helpful. This is my first time cooking. It’s not like I know what I’m supposed to be doing!”

A sigh from the other end. “Trust me. Order in. She’ll thank you for it. I have to go now. Morris has a meeting, and Toby can’t find his socks. I’ll call you later. Don’t traumatize that poor woman any more.”

I hear the call end, and Robert sighs.

My eyes flit around the kitchen.

All this mess is because he wanted to make me breakfast? My lips twitch, and my heart feels warm. He’s clearly losing his mind but is determined to see this through, as if making me breakfast is the most important thing for him today.

I see him lift the pan and take it toward the trash can. I quickly call out, “I want to try that one.”

Robert freezes.

When he doesn’t say anything or move, I roll my eyes. “I can still see you, Robert.”

His shoulders droop. My own shake with laughter.

My gait is slow as I head toward him, and he immediately tries to get rid of the egg in the pan.

“Hold it!” I grab the pan from him. “Let me see.”

“It’s not edible,” he says, glaring at me.

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

He doesn’t put up much of a fight, which is why I’m able to seize the pan from him. The contents have me gawking, though. What was supposed to be a fried egg is swimming in oil. It is still raw on top, and the bottom is black.

I sink my teeth into my lower lip to stop myself from laughing. When I look up at Robert, he looks fifty shades of mortified.

“I told you it was inedible,” he mutters, taking the pan from me. “I’ll order breakfast in.”

I look around the kitchen, wishing I had the guts to actually eat what he had attempted to make. However, I don’t have a death wish at the moment. As I watch him toss the contents of the pan, I ask sincerely, “How are you with buttered toast?”

Robert glances at me, disappointment still in his eyes. “Even a monkey can make buttered toast.”

“And coffee?”

His eyes brighten. “I make good coffee.”

“Let’s have that.” I begin clearing the mess from the table. “My insides still feel raw from the healing. Something light would be preferable. I do appreciate the efforts, though.”

Silently, I think to myself that I might have to get this kitchen deep cleaned and never let Robert near it again. The mess he managed to create is simply insane.

Ultimately, Robert still ends up making me breakfast while I sit at the table. The only edible thing he did manage to cook was the bacon, and it’s a little hard, but I chew on it happily. When he sits down, he looks worn out. However, he doesn’t let me butter my own toast, lathering generous amounts on it before cutting it into two pieces and putting them on my plate.

I’m being cared for, I realize, and I don’t exactly hate it.