Mated to Her Alpha Instructor Chapter 85

Regis

The bathwater had gone lukewarm by the time Eileen's tears finally dried, leaving her eyes swollen and red-rimmed but somehow clearer than before—as though the storm of grief had scoured away years of accumulated pain, exposing raw but honest ground beneath. I dried her carefully with a soft towel, noting how she leaned into my touch despite her exhaustion, and when I lifted her from the tub she didn't protest, merely tucked her face against my neck with a shuddering exhale that spoke of surrender not to me but to the simple necessity of being cared for.

I carried her to our bedroom and laid her gently on the bed, the late afternoon light slanting golden through the windows. She lay passive as I wrapped the towel more securely around her, but through our bond I felt the fragile tentacles of awareness beginning to stir again—no longer the acute anguish of the carriage ride, but something quieter and more uncertain.

"Stay," she whispered when I made to step back, and the word was so small, so hesitant, that Valdor whined low in my chest.

"I'm not going anywhere," I promised, already reaching for the fastenings of my own shirt. Her eyes tracked the movement with hazy attention as I stripped efficiently and climbed onto the bed beside her. I loosened the towel she clutched and slipped beneath it, drawing her against my bare chest so that nothing separated us but shared warmth and the faint dampness still clinging to her skin.

She inhaled sharply at the contact, her body going rigid for a heartbeat before she melted into me with a sound halfway between a sob and a sigh. I banded one arm around her waist, the other sliding up to cup the back of her head.

"Eileen." I said her name quietly, deliberately. "Listen to me, love. You don't have to give your heart to people who never valued it. You get to choose where your love goes—who deserves it, who will treasure it the way it should be treasured. And the people who truly see you, who *choose* you... we'll fill all those empty spaces your parents left behind."

Her fingers curled against my chest, nails biting lightly into my skin as though she needed the small pain to believe this was real. Through the bond I pushed every ounce of conviction I possessed—the fierce protectiveness, the reverence, the overwhelming *rightness* of having her here, safe, *mine*.

"I don't know how to let go of wanting them to love me," she whispered.

"Then let me help you." I tilted her face up so I could see her swollen eyes. "Let me show you what it feels like to be loved the way you deserve."

I traced the line of her jaw with my thumb, felt her breath hitch when I skimmed lower to brush the faint ridge of my mating mark on her throat. "You're mine, Eileen," I murmured against her temple, my other hand drifting down her spine in slow, deliberate strokes. "And I'm yours. That's not obligation or duty. That's *choice*. My choice. Every single day."

She shuddered, and I felt the first stirrings of something other than grief flickering through the bond—a tentative, hesitant warmth. I kissed her forehead, her closed eyelids, the tip of her nose, each press of my lips a silent vow. When I returned to the mark on her throat, I lingered there, mouthing gently at the sensitive skin, and the soft gasp she gave sent a bolt of heat straight through me.

"Regis." My name was a plea, and her hand slid up into my hair, holding me against her neck. Through the bond I felt the sudden flare of *need*, sharp and startling.

I pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, searching her face, and what I found was a kind of desperate hunger—not just for pleasure, but for *replacement*, for the physical and emotional reassurance that she wasn't empty, wasn't worthless.

"Tell me what you need," I said roughly.

"Make me forget." Her voice was raw, but her eyes were clear. "Just for a little while. Make me feel like I matter."

"You matter more than anything," I growled. "Let me show you."

She arched slightly against me, the towel slipping further, and the trust in that small movement—in her willingness to be this vulnerable after everything—nearly undid me completely.

I kissed her then, deep and thorough, and when she opened for me with a soft whimper I gentled immediately, coaxing rather than demanding. I eased her onto her back, following her down, and when the towel finally fell away I forced myself to slow, to let my gaze map every inch of her.

"I'm going to take care of you," I told her, voice gone rough. "I'm going to make you feel so good that there's no room left for anything else. But if you need me to stop—"

"It won't be too much." Her hands came up to frame my face. "I need this. I need *you*."

I lowered my head to kiss her again—softer this time, a slow exploration that made her sigh and relax beneath me. I kissed the corner of her mouth, the line of her jaw, the hollow of her throat where my mark lay, and when I continued downward she tensed briefly before forcing herself to soften.

I took my time with her breasts, lavishing attention on the sensitive peaks until she was squirming and breathless, her fingers tangled in my hair and her thighs restless against mine. Every sound she made fed the bond until it thrummed between us, and I used that connection shamelessly, adjusting my touch to match the wordless pleas building in her chest.

When I kissed lower still, I slowed—mindful of the life growing beneath my hand, my hunger tempered by care. She made a choked sound that might have been protest or permission. I glanced up, catching her wide-eyed stare, and held it deliberately as I settled between her thighs.

"Let me," I murmured against the soft skin of her inner thigh, already able to scent her arousal sharp and sweet. "Let me worship you the way you deserve."

Her breath caught audibly, and for a moment I thought she might refuse—might retreat behind shields of shame or uncertainty. But then she nodded, just once, and the trust in that small gesture made something in my chest constrict.

I kissed the inside of her knee first, then higher, my palms smoothing up the outside of her thighs to hold her steady as she trembled. Her skin was impossibly soft here, unmarked and vulnerable, and I took my time trailing kisses and gentle scrapes of teeth along the sensitive flesh until her breathing went ragged and her hands fisted in the sheets beside her hips.

"Regis, I—" Her voice broke on my name, and through the bond I felt her teetering between embarrassment and desperate anticipation.

"Shh," I soothed, pressing a kiss to the crease where her thigh met her body, so close to where she needed me but not quite there yet. "Just feel, love. Let me take care of you."

I nuzzled closer, breathing her in—the clean scent of bath herbs couldn't mask the underlying sweetness of her arousal, and Valdor rumbled with approval deep in my chest. I felt her go very still, as though she were holding her breath, and I rewarded her patience by finally, *finally* putting my mouth on her.

The first touch of my tongue was light, exploratory, a slow stroke through her folds that made her jerk with a startled gasp. She was already slick, her body betraying her need even as her mind clearly struggled with the intimacy of it, and I took my time learning the shape of her, the places that made her thighs quiver and her hips lift unconsciously toward my mouth.