They Say It Gets Easier

Part 2

Max's POV

They say it gets easier. That the pain dulls over time. I guess they're right.

But maybe it's just easier to pretend. I'm not over him. How could I be over him? We'd never had a relationship, we were nothing more than friends. But I lied to myself, drumming into my brain that I was never into him. That I didn't crave him. That whenever he left I didn't fear that he might never return.

A body and mind at war. I was never into him. But I was.

Alec.

Just thinking about him hurts. The night of the raid, so many months ago, is still fresh in my mind. Every day I make my way to the command post. Every day Dix shakes his head sadly. Mole puffs thoughtfully on a cigar, lays a hand on my shoulder and says, "Don't worry, Max. He wouldn't give up on us; we sure as hell won't give up on him."

But I have, haven't I? I've moved on, given up.

Running a hand through my hair distractedly, a trait I picked up from Alec, I close my eyes. I can still feel him pressed against me; his lips on mine, hands roving over my body. I'd wasted so much time with Logan that could have been spent with Alec. He cared about me, I know that now.

Logan.

Bright flashes of a white room, the stench of death, of blood. The stale smell of urine released in fear. His face, waxen and tinged blue at the lips, eyes wide and empty, staring, begging. The pain. The pain doesn't dull for me.

A hand at the small of my back, another brushing hair from my eyes. The familiar scent of light, masculine cologne and the pure male muskiness that is my boyfriend.

Biggs.

I don't know where I'd be today without his support. He was there for me, when I grieved. For Logan, for Alec, for a future I hadn't known I'd held in my hand for brief moments, only to lose to White.

White.

Anger courses through me and I tense beneath Biggs' sure touch. He feels it, knows what I'm thinking. He always knows. Pulling me against him, I melt into his comforting embrace. I flash cold, hot, scared, angry, frustrated. And I yearn to be touched. To feel loved.

Biggs takes a deep breath and looks meaningfully into my eyes.

"It's time, Max. Are you sure this is what you want?" His eyes are soft, tone gentle. Never forceful, always letting me take the lead. Something he learned from Alec, and from the me I've let surface in the months following such great loss.

My voice barely above a whisper, I reply. "I'm sure."

Biggs takes my hand and leads me to our bed. I'm not quite sure, but after everything I've lost, I know better than to turn away from a good thing. And Biggs is a good thing, a sure thing. He loves me. Maybe I can learn to love him too. But for now it's enough.

The room is dark, illuminated solely by moonlight. The rays dance across his naked chest, dark hair gleaming under silver spotlight. Our hearts beat in synch, a rapid, steady tempo as we engage in an age-old dance. His skin is damp with sweat that coats my tongue with salty residue. We're powerless to resist the fire that drives us to completion. We consume each other greedily in our fevered state. We're cut from the same cloth. He is bred of the same manipulated genes as I; robust, strong, beautiful, insatiable.

"Mine," he growls, biting deeply into the tender flesh of my shoulder. I shudder a moment as the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. The air feels different tonight but not because of my heat. It's something I don't quite understand; a familiar sensation that I cannot identify. I am unwilling to dwell on the unknown, rather choosing to stay in the here and now. Here and now, with Biggs, my mate.

I close my eyes, biting back tears, refusing to cry for my past.

"Yours."

Part 3