The Tyrant Alpha's Rejected Mate (Five Packs #1)(13)

“Killian says I need to report,” a male argues. Familiar, but wrong. I huddle small.

“So report.”

“What am I gonna report?” The male’s voice grates like radio static.

It’s Fallon, the youngest brother from my last foster family. We’re close, but dear Fate, has he always smelled like milk gone bad?

“Tell the alpha that his mate is in heat in the woods.”

“I ain’t tellin’ him that.”

“Then make something up.” Abertha’s exasperated. She’s close. A yard or two away. There’s a slight easing, not in my body, but in my mind. She’ll help me. She’ll know what to do.

“Like what?”

“I wouldn’t dare think for one of the alpha’s minions.” Abertha doesn’t even try to not sound sarcastic.

“Yeah, that wouldn’t—” Fallon’s voice trails off. “But if you were gonna give him a report?”

“I’d say his mate is in heat in the woods.”

Fallon growls. I tense, and all my joints scream at once. Because of the wounds from the fight? Shifting? Heat?

From all of it and the loneliness salting every wound.

“Don’t growl at me, pup. I’ll curse you.”

There’s a long silence.

“I’ll tell him she’s with you,” Fallon finally says.

“You do that,” Abertha replies.

“Is she—” He clears his throat. “Is she okay?”

“What does it smell like to you?” Abertha asks, curt, clearly done with him.

“Like something’s wrong.”

“Go ahead and tell him that.”

“He won’t care.” Fallon’s voice is bitter.

Abertha doesn’t answer. There’s a rustling and the stink of sour milk fades. I suck down a deep breath.

And then I see scuffed boots and the hem of a patchwork skirt.

“Oh, you poor thing.” Abertha squats, peering through the thorny branches. “How long have you been in there?”

She clucks. I can’t even raise my head to acknowledge her. I’ve collapsed to my side, panting, tongue hanging from the corner of my mouth.

“Let’s get you out of there.” She reaches in, yelping when a thorn scratches her forearm. “I’m sorry Una’s little wolf. This isn’t going to be as gentle as I’d like.”

She grabs my hind legs and drags me out from the underbrush. I whine. The pain is so all-encompassing, my bad leg hurts no worse than the other.

“There we go.” Abertha plops on her butt—as always, amazingly agile for a female her age— and she cuddles me between her legs, smoothing a hand over my flanks. I whimper.

“You need to shift back, Una, love. I can’t help you like this.”

I don’t want to. I don’t want to think as well as feel. Feeling is already too much.

“Come on, now, brave girl. Come on,” she coaxes. I lay there, spent and shivering. She sighs. “It’ll go easier on you if you decide to do it yourself.”

I can’t. I don’t have the energy.

Abertha scoots back, giving me space. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Now, shift!”

There’s power in her voice. I have no choice. My body buckles, limbs unfolding, and I bow with the intensity and scream. I’m ripped from my own hide. I’m dragged from my form, and there’s no way to stop or slow, no respite from the stabbing biting pain that goes on and on and on.

Energy crackles through the bond, a surge of strength that isn’t my own finally allows my muscles to knit together.

In her agony, my wolf exhales. Mate. Alive.

And then I’m sprawled, naked, in the dirt. Abertha’s sitting across from me, knees bent, a thick silver braid hanging over her shoulder. She peels off her T-shirt and hands it to me. I catch a strong whiff of patchouli.

I struggle to sit and take the shirt. It’s so hard to wrangle it over my head, but I’m freezing. My teeth are rattling even though my core is on fire.

I ease myself to rest on my hip so there’s no pressure on my pussy. It throbs. I press my thighs tight together. I can’t meet Abertha’s eyes. I’m a mess, dirty and caked with dried blood.

“So you’ve discovered you’re the alpha’s mate.” Her lips quirk and the wrinkles in the corner of her eyes deepen.

“No. He rejected me.”

“He did?” She raises a thin eyebrow.

“Abertha.” I drag in a ragged breath. “It hurts.”

I’m sweating so hard, already the cotton is sticking to my back. My core spasms, and it’s worse than any cramp. It’s a contraction. A thrusting knife.

I want Killian. I need him. And he won’t come.

I hate him. I want to claw my skin from my bones. I want to dash my head against a tree, but I’m too weak to do anything but huddle and shiver.

“I can take you to him. I’ll need to go get a wheelbarrow or something. To carry you.”

I moan. “He rejected me. I’m weak. Unworthy, he says. I’ve done nothing to earn the rank.”

It hurts to say, but the sting lessens as the words pass into the space between us. They can’t cut as sharp out here in the open as they can inside.