Chapter Ten
Vincent stared into the flames of his campfire. Night had descended over the plain, and the sky was full of stars. Crickets chirped, tiny tree frogs whistled, and a soft breeze wafted across his face. He was warm; he pulled off his boots, socks, jeans. What the hell, he thought, and took off the rest. He rested his back against the sheer rock wall behind him, and stretched his long legs out. His campsite was within a hundred yards of the entrance to Tartarus, a mammoth sink hole. The rivers of hell converged and formed a giant falls down into the pit. His sense of Catherine was strong; she was writhing in emotional pain.
Off in the distance, he saw one of Hecate's nightly romps in progress. He smiled in spite of himself, thinking about Hecate's party troupe: ghosts, dogs, misfits, outcasts, Eleanor Rigby, all the lonely souls who skirted the outer fringe of society. Beautiful people need not apply. He would fit in, Catherine would not.
He mused the point. How would that be, if he were to attend one of Hecate's parties with Catherine as his plus one? What would that be like, if the room welcomed his entrance, but shrank back in revulsion at the sight of Catherine? What if he felt their warm embrace, but then witnessed their rejection of Catherine? What if it were she who went around hiding in shadows, her face cloaked? What if she were the one who felt like she did not deserve him, what if she made a habit of telling him that he was too good for her?
What if she sent him away, to find someone to love him and give him the good life he deserved?
It would kill him, that's what.
He would break. He realized that if she felt about herself the way he felt about himself, it would break him.
So, what to do? Was there any part of The Other he could accept? Any part? Perhaps The Other's superior senses and reflexes? They had saved Vincent's life hundreds of times.
Well, then, he would be happy with that. He was grateful for The Other's superior senses and reflexes. He rubbed his hand over his chest, in part scratching, partly absently stroking.
Come to think of it, he admired The Other's decisiveness. He could spend hours if not weeks agonizing over alternatives, trying to predict all the possible outcomes, but The Other quickly reviewed the options, made a choice and stuck with it. Hecate had said something about decisiveness being admirable. She'd also compared him to a warrior. He found he could tolerate that image. A warrior, a champion; yes, he could like that aspect of The Other. But of course, there is no Other…there's only me. I have defended many people from harm. I have protected people I love, and innocent people I didn't even know. And, yes, I can feel good about that.
He bent his knee and rubbed the inside of his thigh. He recalled those occasions when he had rescued Catherine, before he came to himself and remembered to feel ashamed, his heart had swelled with pride. He had been aware of the power in his arms and legs, and his massive chest, and he felt like a conqueror, a khan. He sneered at those who would dare threaten his mate, he beheld the shreds that were left of them with contempt.
He felt his erection stiffen. He looked at himself, and for the first time, he felt proud. Proud of his form, his fur, his body, and his erection. He drew his fingertips softly from his knee to his groin. He took his time pleasuring himself, fantasizing about making love to Catherine under the stars. Just wait, he promised himself, I'll make her moan…moan, and scream my name…YES!
He laid his head down, closed his eyes, and still smiling, fell asleep.