Page 3 of Fury of Affliction

He was too restless to sleep. Most days, while in the throes of excess energy, he burned off the tension by making love to Theodora. But after he’d kept her up all morning, his mate needed sleep more than she needed pleasure. Violet, their three-year old daughter, would be up soon, so?—

Better to suffer alone than exhaust his female.

Typing a correction into a line of code, Sloan watched the screen, then huffed in annoyance. Change never came easy. He preferred smooth, embraced steady, avoiding emotional instability as much as possible. With Theodora, however, the need to pivot became imperative. He must adjust to his new normal, let her all the way in, no matter how uncomfortable the shift.

He owed his mate everything. All of him, every piece, no holds barred or secrets kept. Problem was…

He’d always been a male with secrets. So many, he didn’t know where to start. Or how to share all of it without scaring her.

Planting his fist on the desktop, Sloan bowed his head. Goddess help him. The push-pull was tearing him apart. He wanted to tell her. Theodora needed to know, but every time he veered toward honesty his throat closed. Not that his dragon half cared about his struggle.

His beast adored Theodora, opening wide, inviting her in, allowing her to burrow in and settle deep. The idea made him tense. Self-preservation clung to independence and the old ways. His love for Theodora, however, demanded something else.Something new. Something different. Something, if he allowed the vulnerability, would feed her while devouring him.

His dragon embraced the idea.

His human half railed against it.

The dichotomy confused him. Hard lines he never crossed had begun to blur, blending his past with the present, dragging his history into the open, letting the pain he carried out of its cage. Now he didn’t feel like himself anymore. He was drowning. Slowly losing himself along with the grip on his volatile nature. Things that never bothered him before, irritated the hell out of him now.

He’d never paid attention to what others thought of him. He was self-contained. A hard shell. An unbreachable castle with a moat full of sharks. Needing another’s approval never factored into the equation…until recently. Until Theodora forced him to face an unforgiving truth. One that began and ended with the fact he counted on his packmates. Loved his brothers. Enjoyed being a part of the pack no matter how idiotic the members’ antics, leading him to acknowledge an inescapable fact—his packmates’ opinion of him mattered.

Which made his withdrawal all the more startling…and insulting.

Like Theodora, his brothers needed him to share. To be honest about his past. To be upfront about the depth of his loss. To allow the pack to carry him through the bad times and encourage him through the good. Which, crazy as it seemed, brought him back to the chair.

His chair.

Thepurple monstrosityeveryone hated, and he refused to let go.

His packmates asked about it all the time. So often, Sloan knew he needed to explain, but…fuck. Telling them the truth meant reliving the nightmare. Something he didn’t want to do.The reason he kept his chair wasn’t anyone’s business but his own, and yet the constant questioning bothered him.

He heard the grumbles. Clocked the continued curiosity. Stuffed the hurt down deep every time one of his brothers muttered something derogatory under his breath.

Staring at a gash in the seat cushion, Sloan flexed his hand on the back of his chair. Leather groaned. Frayed stitching popped. He ran his fingertip over a well-worn groove. A scar. One of many his chair had suffered over the years. The familiar feel made bad memories resurface.

His chest tightened.

Deploying an emotional tourniquet, Sloan stemmed the flow and fought through the pain. So his chair was ugly. An eyesore held together by duct tape, mismatched bolts, and cans of WD-40. The wide, bucket seat wasn’t even comfortable anymore, but tossing it in a dumpster would mean throwing away the only thing he had left of?—

“Sloan?”

A soft inquiry. Sweet undertones. Her voice.The voice.The only one capable of blunting the jagged teeth of his turmoil.

“Honey?”

Prickles ghosted down his spine.

Standing with is back to the door, Sloan closed his eyes. “Theodora. Baby?—”

“Why are you here?”

Blanking his expression, he glanced over his shoulder.

Sleepy green eyes met his.

Longing tightened his gut. Pleasure at the sight of her tugged at his heart. Fuck. His female. No one better in the world. No one more adorable either. He would never tire of looking at her. Especially now with a crease from one of his pillows imprinted on her cheek and her long legs on display beneath the hem anoversized t-shirt.His t-shirt, the one she slept in when he didn’t have her naked above or beneath him.

Concern in her gaze, she stopped on the threshold. “Sloan?—”