Dear Enemy, You're My Mate

Chapter 40 **

Patricia

I wake up with a start, feeling like something important is missing. I look around, and the absence of Dior hits me like a freight train. A sudden pang of loneliness strikes my chest like a bullet.

Lost and confused, my eyes dart around the room, searching for the man as if he would be found behind a piece of furniture. Fuck me. Did he leave?

My head throbs. I'm already planning on listening to Adelle and quench the fires of pain wracking through my body, but then I hear it, Dior whistling.

A song from my Youtube playlist is on low volume, and Dior is whistling along with it, as happy-go-lucky as ever. What the hell?

I stare at the bathroom door, and in a barely-awakened state, I slide down onto the floor. My feet touch wood, and I silently sail forward with my head emptied from thoughts. The bedroom is cold, and I'm met with a warm mist the second I push open the bathroom door.

Dior pauses the music, then throws me a slow-spreading smile over his shoulder. I close the door behind me, gawking at him without being able to move a muscle. It's like my legs have grown their gnarled roots and stuck them into the tiled floor.

"Good morning!" Dior sounds happy. "You can come in, not that you even bothered to knock before entering, you pervert."

For a few seconds, I'm braindead, too absorbed by the scandalous scene to make a move. With Dior's arms resting on the sides of the tub and bubbles frothing over his chest and meaty-looking pecs, the man is as handsome as the devil, the picture of sin.

"You can join me if you want."

I burn bright and hot, yet I speak in an irritated tone. "I'm sorry for interrupting—enjoy the bubble bath."

Before I get a chance to turn around and leave, a flock of shadows circles beneath my feet, and then an arm reaches out, pulling me into the darkness. I scream in fright but grow silent when I've teleported to the ceiling above the tub.

For a second, I'm hovering above Dior, whose eyes have grown to the size of saucers. It doesn't seem like he is the culprit, yet I give him a piece of my mind.

"What the hell?!" I yell. "What are you doing to me?!"

Another scream travels up my throat when I fall. My eyes close on instinct, and I chant an inner prayer to survive. I expect to hurt myself and collide with the ground, but I'm caught by none other than the behemoth himself.

Dior speaks close to my ear, making my entire body vibrate. His voice is deep. "I like my new powers—they are bringing us closer."

I groan. "Not funny."

I slowly open my eyes, noticing my legs are dangling over Dior's thick upper arm while he holds me to his chest princess-style. His large palm is pressed into my back while his eyes are searching my face. I think he is scanning me for injuries, but I could be wrong.

"For the record, I didn't intend to teleport you over here. But I must admit that I wanted you to join me in the tub, and I guess the shadows took matters into their own hands," Dior's face turns apologetic as if he is ashamed of his new powers. "I'm sorry—you could have gotten hurt."

Surprisingly, I'm not mad at him. "No worries."

Dior beams at me, then lower himself to sit back in the tub. With a long groan, he relaxes again. I'm awkwardly placed in his lap, hyperaware of his hard cock beneath me.

My voice is low. "When you mentioned having teleported Marcus somewhere, I wasn't entirely sure if you meant it literally."

Dior chokes a laugh. "Yeah, I did mean it literally," he then grows silent before nodding at her door. "Do you need help getting up, or?"

His question saddens me, and the emotion shocks me to my core—since when do I want to spend time with Dior Lavigne? It is so strange, and I have no clue what I'm supposed to do. While I don't dare to tell him I wish to stay, I don't want to leave him. The water is warm and perfect, and it feels good being here with him, even if I'm weirdly positioned between his legs. Dior is too big to share a bathtub with me, but it works when I'm on top of him.

"Actually-..." I hesitate for what seems like an eternity before having to force the words out of my mouth. My voice comes out all awkward too. "Could you wash my hair?"

I expect Dior to laugh at me, make a joke at my expense, or tease me by saying I'm totally into him. And I don't think I could handle that. Shit. Fear circles through me until I'm sitting there, wishing I had never opened my dumb mouth.

I close my eyes, waiting for him to ridicule me. My heart is pounding, but the mockery never comes.

"Alright."

Wait, what?

Dior scoops up water into his palm before lifting it above my head. My initial reaction is to turn into a block of ice, which Dior doesn't seem to notice, or he chooses to ignore it.

He uses his other hand to angle my head so the water won't get into my eyes with a gentleness that makes me feel bubbly and warm. Then, he reaches for the shampoo bottle from the shelf hanging on the wall and begins massaging my scalp.

Humming to himself, Dior somehow gets the music to keep playing on low volume while having both hands in my hair. Inky strands are dangling into my eyes, but his tender fingers drag them behind my ears. The thoughtful action causes tears to form in the corner of my eyes.

After many minutes of me silently sobbing, Dior stops rubbing. "Is something the matter?"

I nod. "Yes…"

There is a slight pause. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I'm so perplexed by this entire situation!" I admit in a frustrated voice, angry at the world, mad at everything. "We used to be each other's worst enemies and now are taking a bubble bath together?"

I realize that I sound like a brat, but I can't help myself—I'm in the arms of the guy who stole my books last year and filled my locker with sticky notes before he turned my entire pack against me. And while I want to forgive him, I'm too proud.

If I forgave Dior, it wouldn't make me seem like a person worthy of his future respect, not if I let myself be stepped over and then dismiss the experience like it was nothing.

"I realize this must be a confusing spot to be in."

I laugh when his cock bobs behind me as if agreeing, and then I swat at his hand, angry at the bastard for making me laugh. I'm such a mess. Can you hate and like someone at the same time?

"Damn you!" I swear at him, both on the verge of tears and smiling so hard it hurts my lips. "You made me laugh!"

Dior chuckles. "Is that a bad thing?"

"No," I answer, taking his more giant hand in mine and stroking my thumb over it. It seems to tickle him, yet he doesn't pull it back. "I guess I'm just afraid that you will change tomorrow, that I will start liking you, and you revert into your old asshole self."

Dior takes a deep breath. "That won't happen."

I turn around in what seems like a tiny bathtub, causing water to spill over the sides. Everything is moving, and I plunge into the water—Dior belts out laughter when I sink into his body and grab his cheeks for support.

"What are you doing?" Dior asks while trying not to die of laughter.

I flush red, struggling not to sink into his chest once more. My hands move from his face down to his shoulders. "Help me!"

"How?!" He laughs, causing the water to form mini waves around us. "I'm not even sure what you're trying to do—drown yourself?!"

I manage to lift my chin and find his amused lips. My eyes are stinging from the soap, and I'm beyond humiliated from using him as a mattress. But I need to see him, which means being on top of him.

"I only wanted to make eye contact with you!"

A lazy half-grin takes over his face, and then he slumps further into the tub, meeting me on my level. My palms reluctantly land on his pecs for support, and a dimple appears on his face.

"Hi."

His minty breath fans against my skin, and I slacken, allowing myself to melt further into him. His hands are on my back, which makes it feel as if we are hugging each other. I like it. All humor is gone from Dior's face. His gaze is heated, and something inside of me goes still and emotional.

"Hi," I reply.

He smiles, pleased with me on top of him, inches away from his luscious lips and right under his beating heart. "Are you afraid of liking me?"

Shit, I didn't expect that question. And I can't even lie now, not when Dior's blue eyes are looking at me all expectant. Unfortunately, I don't think the truth will offer him any consolation.

"Yes."

Dior remains silent, and every second of him not speaking is like a knife to the gutter. I'm afraid of what I've exposed, and now the power is in his hands—what will he say next?

"That was what I was afraid of."

"I'm sorry…"

"No, it's not your fault. Since we have been enemies for so long, I think you misunderstand my intentions here." His expression is fond and tender as he slowly leans forward, resting his forehead against mine. Those eyes are heart-meltingly kind. "But I'm not here to make you cry, Patricia."

A lump gathers in my throat. "Do you promise?"

"I promise."

His arms wrap around me, squeezing me to him while his lips plant a kiss on top of my head. My resistance is long gone, pushed away by the sweet emotions conveyed by Dior's actions.

With his nose still pressed to my head as if he can't get enough of my scent, Dior mumbles. "I can't stop thinking about you—you're on my mind all the time, twenty-four hours a day."

I'm overwhelmed by my emotions, slowly letting the chains draped around my heart sink into the unknown. I'm courageous and whisper the truth. "You're on my mind too."

We breathe the same air, and I feel weightless on top of him, a goner in his muscular arms. My heartbeat has fallen in rhythm with his, and I don't ever want to leave. It scares the crap out of me, how much I want from him and how little of me I'm willing to give. I'm terrified of getting hurt, yet I'm not able to stop touching him.

"I want to be near you all the time, but that's my selfishness speaking—I understand that you don't trust me yet."

I'm afraid to breathe. My head is spinning, and my heart is aching, desperately wanting more, wanting it all. More is better.

"No," I agree in a teary voice. "Two weeks ago, I hated you and wanted you dead. I can't forgive and forget so easily when my brain is barely keeping up with everything that is happening. Hell, I don't even know what we are—everything is so new and confusing to me."

"How about not putting a label on us?"

I lift my chin. "What do you mean?"

Dior stirs, finding my eyes. His eyelashes are fanned out over his cheeks, his skin glowing in the dim bathroom light. He is beautiful, like a newly awakened Greek god.

"In our battles, you've always quipped that everything comes easy to me, and I guess I can somewhat agree—I became the youngest alpha in the region, a star athlete with the world in his palm," his eyebrows knit together as if he despises his life. "On the surface, I'm sure my life seems perfect. But when it comes to love, then I'm lost. I don't want to ruin what we can have in the future by moving forward too fast. If you need time, then you will get it—I'm a patient man."

I study the lines of concentration on his face, notice the frustration circling in his eyes like a flock of vultures. "Becoming the alpha of the Winterbite pack isolated me. We had so many enemies that I forgot to be social. Instead, I focused on how to fight and beat the next fool that came along, and it left me bitter—I took that out on you, but it won't happen again."

The only answer I can give him is a nod. I'm out of words, too taken by the things he has told me to reply. I never thought the day would come for him to give me an apology and open up like a book.

Dior sits back up, bringing me with him. One arm is behind my back, and he wistfully smiles at me. "Even in a pack with hundreds, I'm lonely. And I'm tired of it, so I will try to let you in. I get that it's hard to switch gears, but how about we try being friends?"

His words make me smile. "And forget you're hard around me all the time?"

Dior glares at me. "I'm trying to be serious here!"

I close my eyes when he splashes water at me, frustrated by my choice of making fun of him. "Sorry!"

"You should be!"

I snort, clinging to his body like a koala when he stands up from the bathtub. The muscles in his arms are massive and bulging as he maneuvers us around. I find it hot how he doesn't seem to mind the extra weight, not even a tiny bit.

I lick my lips. "Why don't we try becoming friends with benefits?"

Dior glances down at me, all smug. It terrifies me—can he smell my arousal even after I've been rubbed in soap?

"Sure."

My eyebrows shoot for the roof. "You're agreeing?"

"Yes," Dior smirks as he steps into the shower area. His eyes lower to my throbbing pussy, and my heart stops. When his eyes flash to mine, there is no mistaking the satisfaction within them. "I know what happens next in those relationships, and it seems I'm not the only one getting hard here—you're soaking wet, and it's not from the tub."