BOUND TO THE BULLIES

13 | Fever Dreams

Darcy

Damon was right.

It starts at exactly midnight.

I wake up gasping, my lungs burning as if I’ve inhaled smoke. But there is no fire in the room. The fire is inside me.

I kick off the silk duvet, tangling my legs in the sheets. My nightgown clings to my skin, soaked in sweat.

"No," I whimper, clutching my stomach.

It feels like a hollow ache. A deep, gnawing emptiness in my womb that screams to be filled. My skin feels incredibly sensitive, so sensitive that the mere brush of the fabric against my n*****s sends a jolt of pain—and pleasure—straight to my spine.

Need.

The word pounds in my head in time with my heartbeat.

I squeeze my eyes shut. "I am not an animal," I whisper into the darkness. "I am Darcy Allen. I hate them."

But my wolf doesn't care about hate. She is scratching at the back of my mind, howling for her mates. She can smell them. The air in the mansion is recycled, thick with their scents.

Ronan’s ice. Damon’s gunpowder. Amos’s rain. Alastair’s mint.

It’s driving me insane.

I stumble out of bed. My legs feel like jelly. I need water. I need ice. I need to cool this inferno down before I do something stupid.

I unlock my door with trembling fingers. The hallway is dark and silent, shadows stretching long across the floor.

I take a step, and the gold chain around my neck feels heavier than before. It feels like it’s pulsing, connected to him.

I make it to the top of the grand staircase. The marble railing is cool under my hand. I press my forehead against it, groaning.

"Make it stop," I beg the Moon Goddess. "Please."

She doesn't answer. instead, a wave of heat hits me so hard my vision blurs. My knees buckle.

I fall forward.

I brace myself for the impact of the hard floor, but it never comes.

Strong arms catch me.

"Careful, Darcy."

The voice is smooth, cultured, and smells like peppermint and expensive cologne.

Alastair.

He holds me easily, his hands firm on my waist. His body is cold, so wonderfully cold against my feverish skin. I involuntarily lean into him, burying my face in the crisp fabric of his white shirt.

"You’re burning up," Alastair observes. His voice isn't panicked. It’s clinical. Detached.

He shifts his grip, one hand moving up to touch my cheek. His fingers feel like ice cubes. I let out a moan of relief that embarrasses me.

"Hurts," I slur, looking up at him through hazy eyes. "Alastair... it hurts."

He looks down at me. In the moonlight, his glasses glint. He doesn't look like a savior. He looks like a scientist examining a fascinating experiment.

"The Heat," he concludes softly. "It’s early. The proximity to Ronan accelerated it."

He doesn't help me stand. Instead, he scoops me up into his arms, bridal style.

I should fight him. I should demand he put me down. But being held by him soothes the ache in my bones.

"Where are you taking me?" I whisper.

"The kitchen is too far," he says simply. "The library is closer."

He carries me down the hall and kicks open the double doors of the library. He walks over to a large leather sofa and deposits me gently onto it.

The leather is cold. I writhe against it, seeking relief.

Alastair stands over me, adjusting his cuffs. He watches me struggle for a moment, his expression unreadable.

Then, he reaches out. He places his palm flat on my stomach, right over the center of the heat.

I gasp, my hips arching off the sofa to meet his hand.

"Please," I sob. I don't even know what I’m asking for. I just want the emptiness to stop.

Alastair leans down. He places a hand on the sofa on either side of my head, trapping me.

"I can help you, Darcy," he whispers, his voice dropping an octave. "I can take the edge off. I know exactly where to touch to make the pain turn into pleasure."

He brushes a stray hair from my sweaty forehead.

"But I’m not Amos," he warns softly. "I don't do charity."

My heart pounds. "What do you want?"

Alastair smiles. It’s a sharp, dangerous smile.

"I want you to admit it," he says. "Admit that your body wants me. Admit that you need me."

He moves his hand from my stomach, dragging it lower, until his fingertips brush the hem of my panties.

He stops there. Waiting.

"Say it," Alastair commands gently. "Beg me to touch you, Darcy. Or I walk away and leave you to burn."