The Forbidden Mark (Book 1)

Chapter 7

THOMAS

Thomas observed the plain ceiling in his bedroom. His bedroom was bare. One photograph of him, Jonathan and Robert sitting on his desk. His desk was painted black. His bed king-sized, three feather pillows, a turqoise duvet. His closet left open. Clothes thrown out.

He laid in his bed, the clock almost hitting eight. He would be late with this slowness. Two weeks had passed. He had not spoken to Deidre in two weeks. The avoidance had doubled the amount it was than when they had first met. The matebond did not strike her this hard because she was in the dark of it. Yet, for him, he suffered daily.

His mental state was worse than ever. He had tried to speak with her, but she was having none of it. He understood he had freaked her out with the beating of Ron. But Ron was the one who had tried to force himself on his mate. If Robert had not been there, he would have succeeded. Ron could not take the hint that she wanted nothing to do with him. It was his fault. And now, thanks to Ron, Thomas was depressed.

He had protected his claim. She should have been grateful and not pushed him away. He was well aware that Erin had warned her of this town, of the people in it. But Thomas was not the one she was supposed to be afraid of. All he wanted was to protect her. That was why he was there in the first place.

"You are so whipped," Vincent spoke up.

"I miss her," he whispered. "It is your fault–her behaviour. You are the one who took control, tried to beat up that prick. She was there and you knew it. She was scared shitless. And she had the right to be with the way you looked at her."

"Then do something to get her back. I was just staking my own claim. Our claim. I was protecting her. The prick had to know his place. If you are so pissed then why don't you go claim her? Fuck the shit out of her. Put her in her place."

"Stop it!" Thomas groaned. Vincent had a habit of pushing his limits. He growled into his pillow. A memory appeared in his head. It was clear that Vincent had planted it there. The memory of the queue. The softness of her skin, the arousal he sensed, the pretty dress she wore, the very short dress. His fingers had been thus close. He would have pulled down her panties and mated her right there in front of everyone to see if she had not been so stubborn as to push him off.

"And you are about to get another hard-on if you don't stop thinking about that shit," Vincent warned.

"Shut up," he grumbled again, stopping his hand from rubbing one out on the front of his pants.

He loved many parts about Deidre. She occupied his mind daily. She was a daily dose of drug. Her eyes sparkled with happiness whenever he spoke, whenever she looked at him. He loved how her eyes would shine bright also when she talked about stuff she was passionate about. She was passionate about running, books, art, her studies. She was interested in mythology too.

Deidre had a habit of averting her gaze when he would look at her. A warm blush coating her pale cheeks. She was precious with her big glasses, bright smile, flushed cheeks, the innocent side he longed to tear off.

He had witnessed enough conversations between her and Erin to know of her innocent side. Deidre was far too innocent for the world. He desired to teach her all the information she needed to hear.

"Says the virgin himself," Vincent retorted.

He wanted to be her tutor.

And just like that an idea sparked. Thomas' grin reached his ears.

"Oh, no. Please tell me you are not actually considering this?"

"You are damn right I am," was all he replied with. The backpack was over his shoulder, shoes tied, his feet taking him down the stairs. He had not bothered with a shower. He had one thought in mind. An idea that sounded genius to him. He tiptoed through the living room, to the front door. No energy to deal with his family.