She Soothes The Beast In Me

Alejandro’s POV

The rain stopped sometime after midnight. I heard the moment her breathing evened out. Felt her restlessness settle into sleep. I sat on the couch, still as stone, only my fingers moving slightly, clenched around the bracelet like it could anchor me to this moment.

I had to show her. Not all of it. Not yet. But enough to explain why I barely speak. Why I hold back. Why I ran so far just to be seen by someone who did not look at me like I was a broken tool.

So I closed my eyes and opened the channel. Projecting is not something I do often. This is an ability that not even my mom knows I possess. It is raw and dangerous. It turns memory into dream and lets another soul walk through my truth.

But Zenith… she felt safe. Her aura, her scent, everything about her soothed the beast in me. And if I cannot find the words, I will give her the memories. So I gave her the white oak. The bracelet. My mother’s confession. The run through Oregon’s forests, hunted like prey. The shift. The carnage. The collapse.

She needed to see me for what I was. All of me. She did not scream when she woke. She did not cry. She ran to my arms and whispered, “I had a nightmare.” That was all. But her trembling told me she knew it was more than that. She has barely left my side since.

Now, sunlight streams through the windows of her bungalow in Ashland, Washington. The rain gave way to a clear sky. Birdsong flits faintly through the open kitchen window. The smell of toast and eggs wafts through the air.

Zenith moves quietly around the kitchen, humming something under her breath. Every now and then, she glances back at me, watching, her gaze softening. She has not asked about the dream. But her silence speaks volumes. She is calmer. Gentler. Like she is touching something fragile and trying not to break it. Me.

I sit at the small dining table, unsure what to do with my hands. Talking still feels like swallowing shards. But when she sets the plate down in front of me and says, “Eat,” I obey. Something in me loosens when she includes me in the rhythm of her life.

She asks me to help wash her brushes after painting. I do not know what I’m doing, but she smiles anyway. She drags me to the edge of the lake near her house and dares me to swim. I do, and she laughs when I splash her, her eyes bright, and cheeks are flushed.

She tells me her parents will not be back for another three weeks. And that I can stay… if I want to. She said it casually. But she was watching me too closely when she did. I wanted to reach into her mind. Just a little. To see if she felt this strange, magnetic pull the way I do. To see if she is starting to crave my presence the way I crave hers. But I stopped myself.

If she is meant to want me, it will come freely. Her trust is not something I will steal. By late morning, she stands at the door, keys dangling from her fingers. “We’re going out,” she announces. I tilt my head. “To the mall,” she adds. “You need a phone. And new clothes. You can’t keep wearing just one outfit and my backup hoodie like a cryptid.”

I blink slowly. “You can frown at me all you want, mister wolf-man. But you’re getting dressed, and you’re coming with me.” She just called me, wolf-man. And that too, with a smile? Does this mean she has unconsciously accepted the reality of the dream and still is not afraid of me? Wow. This must be the power of the mate bond.

The mall is loud. Too many voices, too many scents, too much fluorescent light. But Zenith is my anchor, flitting through shops with that same determined grace she carries even when she is painting. She piles shirts and jeans and boots into my arms like I’m her personal mannequin.

And even though I do not say much, I let her. She does not ask if I like things. She just knows. Picks colors that do not clash with my skin, styles that do not feel like someone else’s life draped over mine. At checkout, I pull out the black card from my pocket. My mother’s parting gift.

Zenith tries to object, “No, wait....” I shake my head and gently place the card on the counter. I will not let her spend a dime on me. Her mouth twitches like she wants to argue, but in the end, she lets it go.

We have lunch at a top-floor restaurant overlooking the town square. It’s the fanciest place I have ever been to. The tablecloth is white. The cutlery shines. The food is delicate and plated like art. Zenith dips her spoon into the soup and raises her brow at me. “Fancy enough for you?”

I nod once. She smiles. And for the first time, I catch it, not just kindness in her gaze, but something else. Something quieter. Warmer. Like maybe, just maybe, she is beginning to understand what she is to me. What she has always been. My antidote.