15. Jasmine

Various scenarios are flashing through my head at his question, and while some of them are insanely hot, others have me ready to run for the door. I grip the edge of the desk to keep myself in place, but there's no hiding the sharp edge to my scent. "Hold up a second. If you're planning to spank me, Xavier, my college tennis coach always compliments me on the power in my swing. Which means I give as good as I get."

That makes his mouth thin, the heat in his eyes melting away. "You have a head wound, and you think I want to spank you?" He rests his hand on my nape, and I can't tell if he wants to shake me or draw me close. "I need to take care of you, Jasmine. I need to tend to your injury, and wash your body, and then scent-mark you, if you'll let me."

There's no missing the flash of vulnerability in his eyes. I try to rein in my surprise, but I'm pretty sure I fail miserably. But can you blame me? I mean, this is not what I was picturing when he asked me to put my body in his hands.

"You have a thing for caregiving?" I ask, stumbling over the word. It's an old-fashioned concept, straight off the pages of my most lurid romance novels. Once upon a time, before omega rights were even whispered about, dominant alphas would court their prospective mates with intense caregiving rituals. All the usual daily routines of bathing, feeding, dressing, and sleeping were overseen by the alpha, usually with a lot of hands-on involvement. It made for some steamy scenes in my books, but I'm not sure how it translates to real life.

"I told you I'm very dominant," he says, staring at my mouth instead of my eyes. "Taking care of you will keep my beast under control. It's hard for me to accept you're injured under my roof, especially when you have another alpha's scent on you."

I grimace, regretting I didn't stop for that shower now. "But I saw the doctor. Your doctor. And he told you I'm fine."

"I didn't say it was a rational reaction." That flash of self-consciousness is back, and it affects me a lot more than his words. Everything about Xavier is so controlled and composed. The few times I've caught a glimpse of his so-called beast it's been in extreme circumstances, but now I wonder if he's fighting this urge all the time. Is this why he's devoted himself to rescuing omegas? It can't be easy for his caregiver nature to attend those tasting parties, or to host their abusers in his club. It also makes me wonder how he's coped with having an injured Casper under his roof all these months.

"So, what would it involve? If you took care of me, I mean."

"It doesn't have to be the entire ritual. It could simply be checking you over for myself and then washing and dressing you. It would be best if you wore something with my scent, since the process of marking you up might make you a little uncomfortable."

That dangerously curious part of me wants to get the full rundown on this ritual – and especially the scent-marking part - but I manage to curb the flurry of questions that spring to mind. "Okay. We can do that."

Something that looks a lot like joy sparks in his eyes, and I try not to fidget. I mean, it's just a little first aid and wet wipes, right? Exactly how much care can he give me in the middle of his office?

"If you'd come through to the bathroom, we can get started."

There's no missing the eagerness in his scent, but instead of leading me into the office ensuite, we go down the hall to another room. When he pushes the door open, I almost choke at the set-up. There's a massage table in the middle of a room that's straight out of a high-end spa. My gaze runs over the piles of fluffy towels, taking in the jars of oil and bottles of lotion stacked in neat rows. There are also fresh flowers and candles, but I have to stop and stare at what looks like an egg-shaped flotation tank. It's worlds away from your basic bathroom, and the very last thing I'd expect to find in an alpha residence. "You can't tell me this came with the club."

"No. I had it installed when Casper first joined us."

"But he's never used it?"

It's an easy guess, and Xavier gives a reluctant nod. "For the most part, Casper has stayed in his room. And he's made it clear he's not comfortable in new spaces. Exposing him to this seemed like it would harm him more than help him."

I'm a little overwhelmed myself, but Xavier is already rolling his sleeves up over his elbows and taking a small medical kit from a cabinet. When he directs me over to the massage table I approach it with caution, but he just tells me to sit on the edge. I sink down, watching closely as he pulls out a cotton pad and a small jar of oil. "This is tea tree, almond oil, and thyme," he tells me as he applies it to the pad, then brushes it gently over my wound. "It's good for bruising and inflammation."

I shiver more at his closeness than the gentle touch to my temple. It's hard to meet his eyes and I drop my gaze to the bottle's label. I'm pretty sure the elegant handwriting is a match for the notations on the companion contract. "You made this yourself?"

A small smile touches his lips. "My mother was an omega and a midwife. Everything you see here is from her recipes."

"That's amazing." Not just that her alpha son seems to be carrying on the family tradition, but at the sheer number of jars and bottles with the homemade labels attached. This isn't just a passing hobby, and something catches in my throat at his dedication to his mother's profession. "A lawyer and caregiver. She must be really proud of you."

I watch the shadow of an old hurt flicker through his eyes, and his smile turns sad. "She died when I was a teenager. But before that, she taught me a lot about helping other people." He drops the cotton pad in a small trash receptacle under the chair and studies me with those deep, dark eyes. "I'm not sure she would have approved of me going into law, though."

"My mom died when I was sixteen," I tell him quietly. It was ruled an accidental overdose of sleeping pills, but I've always wondered if it was a coincidence that she died only months after my first hormone injection. "She was an omega, too."

"I'm sorry," he says, and squeezes my hand. A pulse of something soft and warm seems to pass through my skin at the gesture, although it's possible I'm just hypersensitive to his touch. Everything about Xavier is compelling, and I realize it's not because of his uber nature as much as his protective instincts. Who wouldn't want to have a man like Xavier looking out for them? "But I'm glad you have Violet," he says as he dabs gently at my neck. "She's wonderful."

I nod. Violet is the best thing that ever came out of the Crenshaw estate. "I'm glad, too. She's the best."

He smiles, but his gaze has moved away from my bruise on my temple to the skin on my neck, and I can smell his scent sharpening. "You wore her scarf?"

He must have a pretty amazing sense of smell if he can still pick that up. "Yeah, just to try to lure Jackson away." I pause at the way his gaze snaps to mine. Tension thickens between us, and I swallow hard. "My own scent is pretty weak, and I wanted to make sure he followed me into the alley."

Xavier's jaw flexes, and I can tell he's not very impressed with my impromptu plan to deal with a sadistic uber. But neither am I, in hindsight. I might have come to terms with leaving Violet, but every time I picture Jackson's fist flying towards my face, I feel sick down to my bones. If he'd used his full force, or if I'd fallen the wrong way, I have no doubt I would've died in that alleyway.

But Xavier seems unaware of the dark path my thoughts have taken, his focus on the jars he's sorting through. After a moment of rummaging, he turns back and tilts my chin up. "Your scent is light," he confirms, "but it's very enticing. Which is partially why I'm feeling so territorial. Your scent gland reeks of another alpha."

My eyes widen in alarm, but there's no way Jackson left his mark on me. "Is it… Could it be Erik? He held me in the car." I don't mention blubbering into his neck, because Xavier is already on edge about my wellbeing. "Can you get rid of it?"

"Of course. You can wash it in the bathing chamber," he says, nodding to the egg-shaped tank, "or I could do it for you."

There's no doubt in my mind that Xavier wants to wash me himself. "I'm claustrophobic," I tell him, giving the egg tank the side-eye.

His brow pinches as he studies what is probably a very expensive bathroom accessory. "We can leave the door open."

"What's that?" I ask, pointing to the jar he selected.

"Coconut oil, sweet almond, jojoba seed, and bergamot." He takes off the lid and tilts it towards me. "I use it myself as a shower gel."

I'm already nodding, and my choice is less about my fear of small spaces than getting some of Xavier's scent on me. "That sounds great." I wiggle back an inch on the table. "Go for it."

The pinched look in his eyes deepens. "It would be easier if you put on a robe." He nods to a stack of white cotton neatly folded in the corner. "The oil can get a little messy."

"Oh, right."

Xavier goes over to wash his hands in the sink while I peel off my leggings and t-shirt and cover my underwear with a short cotton robe. When I settle back on the chair, I decide to lie down, because what can it hurt? Xavier's been nothing but respectful, and with the soft glow of the candles and the gentle hum of the bathing chamber, I can already feel the tension flowing out of me.

"Would you like music?" Xavier asks as he drapes a soft white towel over my chest. "We haven't played much since Casper arrived, but the entire residence is wired into a sound system."

"Sure," I murmur, letting myself relax into the buttery leather of the chair. He presses a button on the wall and soft jazz music rolls out of the hidden speakers. I close my eyes as he tilts my chin, exposing the side of my neck. His fingers are warm, his grip just the right amount of pressure. "Just don't tickle me, okay?"

It's my attempt to lighten the mood, but when his thumb gently brushes my scent gland, it sends a shiver through my body. "The skin is a little inflamed."

"I don't know why." My scent gland has pretty much been ignored my whole life, since I've never dated or been courted by a pack. "Maybe I brushed up against something in the alleyway?"

"Did anyone else touch you?"

Patrick's face flashes into my mind, those piercing amber eyes and wild red hair. I can almost hear him whispering in my ear, telling me not to run, and I bite my lip. "Just the alpha who saved me from Jackson. He's the Rose Pack's head of security."

"Patrick Keene. Erik mentioned him." There's something in Xavier's voice that makes me open my eyes. "Do you think he could have marked your scent gland?"

"What?" I push up onto my elbows, unease swirling in my stomach. "Why would he do that? I don't even know him."

Xavier is watching me closely, but he just slides his thumb across my neck, coming to rest on the moon-shaped scar from the hormone injections. "And this? How did it happen?"

"It's nothing. I ran into a branch as a kid." I can almost smell his skepticism in the air, and I push him away from my neck, trying to swing my legs off the chair. "I should just go shower. This isn't going to work."

His hand snatched back, and he takes a rapid step away. "I won't touch you again if you don't want me to…"

"It's not the touching." I draw my legs up instead of climbing off the chair, wrapping an arm around my knees. "I just have a really noisy head, okay? There are things I don't want to think about, let alone talk about."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize."

"I should. It's in my nature to push for answers, but you're right. This is a safe space, Jasmine. We don't have to talk at all if you don't want to."

I press my cheek to my knee, partially to hide my scar, but also so I can still watch him. There's nothing but sincerity in his eyes, and I wish I could just accept that he's looking out for me and let it go. But it's not really Xavier I don't trust. It's all the alphas that have come before him, and those scars run deep.

When my confession comes, it's so soft he has to stoop towards me to hear it. "It doesn't matter if you say it's safe, I still have to plan for the worst."

"Which is what?"

My eyes dart around the room. I've been holding a lot of my darker thoughts at bay, but now they swoop over me, my heart rate picking up. "Lots of things. Kayden could turn up and demand to see me. My dad could send more of his goons for Violet. Or they could get to someone on the inside. They could threaten them until they give them a key, or they could pay them to smuggle Violet out. Or it could be something I haven't thought of yet. A fire, maybe, or a police raid. Something to draw us out or separate us. If you're both evil and motivated, nothing can really stop you."

"Jasmine." His fingers are on my face again, but I can barely feel them this time. I can see his hand, and there's a faint pressure of my cheek, but it's like there's a film between us, numbing the sensation. And his words float over me, as deep and sure as ever, but they don't really touch me either. It's like an echo bouncing off a distant wall, but he still tries to get through to me, and I strain my ears to hear him. "I promise that's not going to happen. But even if they did somehow get in here, they wouldn't get out. And they certainly wouldn't take you or Violet with them."

"You don't know my father." My skin prickles, both hot and clammy at the same time. And my words sound wrong, high-pitched and choppy, like I'm not giving them enough air. "If he wants it, he gets it. He doesn't have any limits, Xavier."

"Nor do I. Not when it comes to my pack."

There's such certainty in his voice, but I'm thinking of my father now, and what he'll do to Violet when he finds her with me. I'm vaguely aware that Xavier is still speaking, more promises falling from his lips. But it's like the distant rumble of thunder, and I can barely hear him over the clamoring in my head. I don't even realize I'm rocking until his hand cups my shoulder, his knuckle titling my face us to his. "Can you hear me, sweetheart?"

I stare at his moving lips. "What?"

"Will you let me help you, Jasmine?"

"I don't want drugs," I manage to tell him through my brittle jaw.

"No drugs. Just my voice and my hand in yours. It's a relaxation technique." I must look unimpressed, because he chuffs. "It's not as flaky as it sounds. Lie down, sweetheart." When my limbs don't move, he smooths them out, arranging me like a doll, then cups my hand in his. "Just listen to my words and let your body relax. Starting with your toes, we'll work our way up to your head."

I grip the side of the chair with my other hand but manage to nod and he gives me an encouraging smile. "Good girl. First, your toes. Try to feel each one. And when I squeeze your hand, I want you to curl them and hold them tight. Ready?" I squeeze his hand in agreement, and he squeezes back. I curl my toes, thinking of ballet class, and dropping a can of beans on my big toe when I was eight. The nail went black and fell off, and there were two little nubs under it like pale roots, so sensitive to the touch….

"Relax when I say relax," he tells me, and I snap back to the sound of his voice and the warm clasp of his hand. "I want you to focus on that release of tension, and on the weightlessness that follows. Now…curl them tight…and relax."

I follow his lead, flexing my feet, then working up my legs to my thighs. He squeezes, I clench, and then at his quiet instruction, I relax. It doesn't happen quickly, but the noise in my head dims, all my thoughts and memories floating just out of reach. I can feel my body slowly loosening, my muscles softening and pooling in my limbs. All the tension I've been carrying around like tumors starts to dissolve and soon the bottom half of my body has melted into the chair. Xavier doesn't stop, his hand squeezing and my muscles unraveling. He travels up my stomach, across my torso, and I feel my heartbeat slow, my breaths growing deep and clean until there's only pure oxygen left behind.

"You're doing so well, Jasmine." Xavier smiles down at me and I realize his gaze and grip are all that anchors me to the chair. If he left the room, I would probably float to the ceiling, a balloon with a clipped string. He works down my free arm, then across my shoulder-blades to the hand he's holding. "Can you feel your fingers wrapped in mine? I want you to stretch them, spreading them like a starfish."

But I shake my head, gripping him tighter. "I'm not letting you go," he says soothingly. "Just the tension in your hand. Nothing bad will happen, I promise."

I manage to stretch my fingers, but I only extend them for a second before clutching him again, tighter than before. Instead of making me repeat the action, a rumble sounds in his chest, his scent blooming around us. "Good girl. You can hold me as tight as you want while we work up your neck."

I frown, but he doesn't focus on my scar or scent gland, just getting me to stretch my throat before he moves on to my head. He makes me frown and smile, all those little muscles I never think about clenching and releasing. By the time he's telling me to scrunch my eyes closed, I'm floating above the bed. I thought my body was growing heavier, sinking into the chair, but I'm so light it's like I'm made of feathers. For a while I spin and drift, as aimless as a puff of air. When Xavier finally squeezes my hand, I open my eyes. I'm still lying on the chair in his pretty spa room, but all I can see is the warm glow of approval in his eyes.

"Good girl, Jasmine. How do you feel?"

"Soft. Light." I pause, letting my awareness creep back in. Instead of the usual jumble of thoughts and clamoring fears, my mind feels almost empty. "Calm."

"Good. That's perfect." The music and lights both dim, and Xavier pulls a soft blanket over me. "Just let yourself sink into that feeling. You're safe here. You can rest as long as you need."

I nod and for a while I drift. I don't sleep, because it's not that kind of exhaustion. It's finally feeling the full weight I've been carrying from all my fears and traumas, all the ‘what ifs' and ‘why did that happen to me?'. There are more scars in my head than I realized, and having them removed – or at least, glossed over for a while with Xavier's care – is a taste of freedom I've never experienced before.

"Thank you," I finally murmur, and Xavier looks at me with those mesmerizing dark eyes.

"You're welcome. Do you want to get up or rest some more? I can help you to the shower if you want."

The old me would have already been heading for the door, determined to take care of it myself, but I shake my head. "I want you to do it."

He goes still before giving my hand the slightest squeeze. "Are you sure? If you want to just stay here and nap, you can."

"You said you'd make me smell like you," I tell him and look pointedly at the jar of oil he tempted me with earlier. "I want that."

He raises his brows and I know that's not exactly what he meant when he talked about scent-marking, but it's as close as I can get to right now.

"Alright. But tell me to stop if it doesn't feel good, or if you change your mind."

I nod and he drizzles a little onto a soft cloth, but I shake my head. "I want you to use your hands, Xavier."

"Jasmine, your defenses are down. I don't want to take advantage of you." He pulls in a shuddering breath, his composure wavering for a moment. "And I want to touch you very, very badly."

I don't miss the warning in his eyes, but that just makes me all the more certain that this is what I want. His hands on me, covering me in the oil his mother taught him to make. "You're a good alpha, Xavier. I want you to take care of me."

His head dips, his gaze dropping to stare at the jar of oil. A part of me marvels at this – not just that I'm willingly putting myself into the hands of an uber, but that I'm also having to convince him to do it. But the very fact he's hesitating makes me trust him all the more.

And right when I'm wondering if I'll have to twist his arm to get him to touch me, his scent explodes, filling the air with rich delicious sparks.