Even without knowing, through scent alone, he could have found her room. Even without his heightened senses he could have found her. All he knew, or thought he knew had been swept away in an almost violent realisation that he might never see her again. Fuck the bloodlines. Fuck the purity of offspring. That look she had turned upon him, pale and drawn with eyes like burning holes, haunted him. He needed to see her face again.

He crossed the wide veranda and reached for the door, the latch was not locked. But then, he mused as he walked silently through the dark, still house, why would a household of werewolves ever need to lock their doors? It would be a dark day for any stupid mortal fucker to break into this home. They no longer had no need or reason to bar the door against him anymore, now that such a beneficial agreement had been reached for both parties. Or so everyone believed. Even for a moment he had believed. Until two very human eyes stared at him with such utter betrayal. He needed to see her face again.

Her room was off to the back of the house, by the kitchens -just like a good little servant should be. And again, that familiar coil of rage stirs deep within his gut, they could not see her for the gift she was and he himself had been guilty of such a crime. "Stupid Fuck," he hissed at himself. Her door is slightly ajar and soundlessly opens at his touch, the bed lies near the window in a small, uncluttered room. A bed that is ridiculously small and child-like for a woman fully grown, another unconscious insult for her to be endure. The familiar smell of her, spearmint, damp forest and amber, reaches him. Another familiar yet misplaced scent soaks through the room….salt…saline…tears, he realises. She's been fucking crying again. A sharp pain shifts deep behind his ribs. He made her cry, she had laid her heart and her hopes at his worthless feet and he decimated them. As he crosses the room, his trend whispers across the woven rug to look down on her sleeping form, her sun tinted skin soaked to a darker, milky coffee by the shadows and the contrast created against simple white cotton sheets. She breathes deeply and Connory watches the steady rise and fall of chest, and with a minute effort can hear the steady throb from her heart, the muscles pulsing blood through her veins. She smells of warmth, soap and the seaside. He feels his teeth sharpen in anticipation, his cock harden - an involuntarily reaction to her presence. As he drags his eyes down the covered curve of her form he notes the skin by her eyes looks heavy and swollen and tracing back from her temple into her hair, slight silvery salt encrusted tracks, left by her tears. As he leans forward he inhales her clean scent, and it's too human, too mild, he wants to lick it from her body and cover it with his own.

And he will.

He is determined, but first she must open her eyes.

He must see her eyes.

As he reaches a hand towards her, he hesitates before curving gently and firmly over her mouth. She startles awake and he suffers a fleeting sense of remorse for scaring her, but she needs to know, to understand. Her panic is powerful, the struggle instinctive but useless as he simply applies his weight against her blanketed form, sitting sideways on the bed and pressing his upper body over her as she attempts to free her hands and claw her way free. The whites of her eyes glow in the dark but his familiar smell and bulk reach through her primordial reaction and she stills as suddenly as she struggled. He cocks an eyebrow, the touch of mercury in his eyes, hinting of wolf. "Hushhhhh," he whispers, "you know it's me." He waits for her eyes to acknowledge and then agree not to shriek the house down, when she nods slightly in compliance, he gives one last warning quirk of his brow before he slides his hand from her jaw, thumb catching gently on her lower lip, to sweep along her shoulder and down the arm to rest over her hand. The involuntary smile he feels stretching his mouth, his sheer relief at seeing her well and awake, checks itself sharply as she rips her hand from beneath his, to grasp the quilt and pull it closer, a shield between her and him. He can see her pulling back, in every sense of the way, falling back to her inner defences. As he shifts back ever so slightly to give her room eyes unwavering watching her face, she hunches over further, arms clasped across her chest, watching him still and silent. He sees her pain sheer seconds before she speaks.

"You're in the wrong room."

At this point Connory realises it has gone to far, he could choose to reason with her, appeal to her rational mind and explain the madness of the moment that overtook his senses and made him a fool, a fool that settled for the wrong female or he could simply – he shifts forwards suddenly, causing her to fall back against the pillow as he braced himself over her powerful arms taunt with tension but face gentle.

"No, I'm not."

She stares at him, her brow furrowed in confusion but her pulse, her tell-tale pulse betrays her, thumping violent and erratic to his ears and her shortened breath. His body tightened further, his teeth sharp and grinding in an effort not to simply fall upon her, she wanted him or her body did -her mind however, was not willing -yet -and he would not have one without the other. She still wanted him. And he would give her reasons to want only him, like she had that morning by the lake- he swore to himself, even if it killed him.

"You chose her." Her tone was defeated. He leant even closer, feeling a pang when she shied away from him, fear apparent on her face but her pride refusing to let her speak it. Tension clear the set of her jaw, the cords of her throat. She had never, even in the very beginning, demonstrated any fear of him. And now, with him in her room, on her bed, she was afraid of him, and it felt like a metal shard twisting beneath his ribs, his breath caught slightly at the pain of it.

"I chose wrong."

It was all he could do. The simple truth, to lead her back to that place where she trusted him implicitly.

Her courage failed her, she was heartsore and broken hearted and here he sat, on her bed- ripping even her dreams from her with lies spoken in a voice like velvet gravel. She turned away from him, curling into a ball, twisting into herself.

"Go away, j-just go away Connory, you made your choice and you can't have us both."

He leaned over her, lips pressing gently over her eyelid, her temple, the hollow of her cheek and the merest glance of her lips edge to return to the curve of her ear and revelled at the shudder the smallest touch drew from her.

"I chose wrong."

His hands reached for her, he pried her loose from her cacoon dragging her up him and angling her face to his. "Look at me," when she refused to open her eyes, he pressed his mouth, lips open against hers and flick of his tongue against the seam of her lips, her startled gasp followed with wide open,startled eyes, he pressed his forehead to hears, his voice almost a rasp in desperate sincerity. "I chose wrong Laura, I was a fucking fool, I do not want both, I only want you."

He leaned a fraction back to see her, willing her to hear what he was saying -hear that he meant it.

"Please say you choose me."