To Kill a Werewolf King

Chance's Panic Attack

Hawke

Both of our mouths snap shut at the same time, a smile curling on my lips and laughter bubbles out of me. Chance smiles at that, a beautiful full-mouthed grin, showing off sharp canines and slightly crooked teeth. It’s a smile that I immediately want to see more often. That’s one of those things I had noticed about him. He doesn’t smile often.

There is always an aura of sadness around him, even when he’s joking. When he does smile, it’s a smile that takes effort, forced into place by years of practice at being the entertainment, or it’s a small, barely perceptible true smile. I’ve seen a few of those when he interacted with the pack members and staff of the house.

He’s also given me one or two, but this smile. This smile lights up my whole f.ucking world. This smile makes my heart race, my eyes focused on the beautiful stretch of his lips. And again, I find myself taking pause, Tommy’s fading smile flashing through my memory.

My joy dies out instantly, replaced with that same familiar gloom that I perpetually live in. I look away from the captivating man. No matter my curiosities about him, or the magnetic force I feel around him, I will not be swayed. I will get Tommy back and I will choose to love him for the rest of my life.

Or death.

“Hawke… What makes you so sad around me?” He asks softly, his stutter completely gone. There is no prideful confidence in the question. Instead there is clear hurt and confusion. Even though he tried to mask it with level headedness, I can sense the hurt radiating off him. I don’t look at him, my sadness growing a bit deeper and a bit of shame creeping in that he noticed even though I tried damn hard to hide it these past few days.

“You just… remind me of someone… is all.” I murmur, fidgeting with the edge of the sheet that hung over the bed beside me. It’s a very interesting piece of work, this sheet. Especially right now.

“D-Did he hurt you?” The temperament stayed neutral as he asked, but I could hear the hidden venom. I look up at him then, wondering if he feels that same magnetic force that I feel. I notice his hands are fisted in his pockets and his plump lips are pressed hard into a line, his jaw clenching. I smile softly, knowing I shouldn’t but allowing myself to take a small amount of pleasure in his reaction.

“He made a promise to me and broke it. Does that count?” I explained. It’s the truth anyway, even if I'm not mentioning the fact that he’s dead and unable to fulfill that promise anymore. Cause that’s just not true. Chance seems to ponder on my question for a moment, before sighing, his shoulder relaxing a bit and shaking his head.

“N-No. It doesn’t. N-Not from the way it s-sounds anyway.” He responds, the stuttering and fidgeting picking up once more. It makes me curious as I realize he felt more confident about protecting me than he does about speaking to me.

“Chance, can I… Can I ask you… do you feel drawn to me.. In any way?” I ask, a bit hesitant myself. I don’t know what to do with the information if he does. And if he doesn’t, then I’ll feel like a fool with even deeper daddy issues than I thought. His hold body freezes when I ask, like he’s suddenly been frozen in an ice cube. His eyes dart around again, making me wonder what his response will be.

“I-It-I-It’s o-only been a f-few d-days since we-we met. I d-on’t know-I don’t know wh-what you c-could p-possibly be insi-insi-in-in- FUC-K! Implying.” He grows frustrated with himself, ripping his hands from his pocket, hunching his shoulders and bit and grabbing at his hair. The actions are all so familiar I regret asking. I stand quickly from the bed.

Coming to stand before him, watching as his body reacts to my closeness. His chest starts heaving a bit heavier, his shoulders straightener a bit and his knuckles start turning white with the pressure he’s putting on his head.

I know he can sense I’m right before him, just six inches or so from my breast touching the lower part of his chest. I reach out, placing my hands on his chest, feeling the fast beating of his heart and the immediately rigidness of his shirt bound flesh.

The light tingles I feel resemble everything I’ve ever heard about a mate bond but I know that it’s not strong enough to be one. Still, I revel in the feeling, closing my eyes, trying to heighten my senses in my touch, in the way his would be, then slowly slide my arms up to his shoulders, feeling his chest still heaving, but a little less as I go.

I slide my hands gently around his biceps, my thumbs skimming his armpits, then up his sides to his biceps. Slowly, I drag my hands up and around his arm to his wrists then his hands.

Gently, I pry his fingers from his hair, forcing my thumbs into his fists and slowly pulling his hands down and away from his head. I can hear his labored breathing all the while, changing from shallow and fast to slower, deeper.

By the time I place his hands on my face, I can feel the flexing in his arms as he straightens his shoulders out a bit more. Then I remove my hands from his, placing them over them instead as I cup my cheeks with his large hands, squishing my face a bit.

The sharp intake of breath that I hear as soon as I complete the action tells me he knows exactly what I’m doing. I wonder if anyone has ever done this for him before. It takes a few long seconds before his thumbs slowly caress their way across my cheekbones, over to my nose.

I remove my hands, placing them at my sides, as he adjusts slightly, feeling out all the plateaus and valleys of my face. I keep my eyes closed, giving him the time to map out what I look like patiently as I can tell by his tentative touch that this is new to him. I don’t want him to feel like he’s being watched. His hands, oh so slowly, pull away from my cheeks, but not completely. He adjusts his hands first, sliding his palms down an inch to my jawline, then down further to my neck, resting at my shoulders.

"I-Is this ok-okay?" He asks quietly, almost reverently.

"Yes."

His hands then move again, his fingertips carressing the dip where my neck meats my shoulders before moving to the top of my chest, feeling out my collarbone. The light tingles that follow his touch are remind me of pixie dust in the wind. They're not so much where he touches directly but shooting across the skin as he moves on. They're so faint, one could actually mistake them for slight shivers. Slowly, his fingers stroke up my neck, behind and around the pierced lobe and cartilage of my ears, framing them. They move across and up my temple to the center of my forehead quickly, like an idea just struck him. Quickly, but carefully still. His precision in his instinct to already have an idea where to stop so he doesn't make a fool of himself applies itself here, his fingertips from both hands, landing perfectly over my forehead.

Suddenly it strikes me how large his hands are as I can feel my hot breath being forced back into my face by what feel like a mask, just a few inches from my mouth. I don't feel like I'm suffocating under his sweet touch though. Instead, I let myself revel in the way his fingers move down my face, carving out the structure of my skull beneath my flesh.

Maybe someday I'll tell him the color of my eyes.

It's a silly thought, and I smile as his fingers grace my lips but he moves over them, clearly hesistant to put his fingers against my lips if that slight tremor told me anything. And for some reason, maybe because the intimacy of this moment has started to overwhelm me, or because he seemed genuinely interest in my well being just a bit ago, but I decided to answer his question. As he finally begins to map the plane of my mouth, I whisper to him something I haven’t said in a while.

“He’s dead. The one who broke his promise. He broke it with his death.”

He says nothing, though his hands stop moving, pulling away from my face instantly. I'm not sure if I feel relieved or disappointed or a bit of both at the loss of his touch, but I push those feelings away, reminding myself of Tommy once more. I open my eyes to see his expression but the blank stare gives nothing by away. Still, his silence is screaming at me to shut up. I cringe inwardly, wishing I hadn't said anything at all as his silence drags on. I inhale a whiff of his heady scent, and then take a slow step backwards, removing myself from his immediate space now that the panic attack has been assuaged.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel that way. I do understand what its like though… if you want to talk about it.” I say softly, curling my hands together at my chest and bowing my head a bit in guilt.

Obviously he was lying about feeling the pull, but I didn't realize the question would make him freak out. I watch as his own hands hang loosely at his sides but as I speak they come together, his one hand picking at the nails of his other for a second before he shoves his fingers into his pockets. His face is bright red and I'm sure he's filled to the brim with anxiety and embarrassment about what just happened for him. I know I'm still feeling some lingering embarrassment to him witnessing my own breakdown.

And before I can say anything further, he turns on his heel, taking long steps towards the door. Unfortunately, he ends up at the wall, one of his hands flailing around a bit until it lands on the knob next to him.

Somehow he realizes he's in front of the wall and not the door, swiftly exiting the room. I want to follow him, to comfort him, but I push those feelings aside, reminding myself that being interested in that man beyond a tool to use is not something I want to do.

But I am even doubting myself already, because that magnetic pull is curious and my curiosity will someday kill me.