The Tyrant Alpha's Rejected Mate (Five Packs #1)(30)

She pauses, smirking at me, making damn sure she has my attention, and then she licks her glossy lips. My wolf alerts, rigid from tail to ears, teeth bared. She’s indignant, but for some reason, she’s not trying to take our skin. I reach out to test the edges of my control, and they’re solid.

The place where the mate bond used to be is raw—like the pink flesh after the scab falls off a skinned knee—but it doesn’t throb or hurt or react at all.

Haisley props a high-heeled black leather boot on the single shallow step leading to Killian. She makes the pose work. Her apple bottom gets a lift, and so do her perky boobs. She tosses her loose blonde curls. It’s like a 90s music video to the soundtrack of shifters snarfing down brisket and talking with their mouths full.

I set the last dish on the table, intent on heading back to the kitchen, but my wolf can’t tear her eyes away. And I guess I can’t either. There’s a sinking sensation in my stomach. My wolf whimpers. There’s nothing we can do but watch.

Haisley says something to Killian. He’s still in a tête-à-tête with Ivo, but he doesn’t wave her away. She approaches him. He glances up and offers her his usual tight smile, not much more than a softening of the lips.

No. Our mate.

I ignore my wolf. She’s growing more and more agitated, but she’s not making a move to shift. I’m good. Nauseous, but good.

Whatever’s going on up on the dais has nothing to do with me.

Haisley and Killian hook up. Everyone with a nose knows, as they say. Killian’s also been with Rowan and Tierney and Finley and Iona. He’s alpha. Alphas take what they want and females are happy to give it.

Nothing is different now than it was last week or last month or last year. I’m not going to puke. Or cry. I’m gonna march my ass back to the kitchen and play on my phone until it’s time to clear the tables. Like every other night.

But instead, I stand in the aisle with the tray dangling at my side while Haisley straddles Killian’s lap. She arches her back, rising up on her pointed toes. Putting on a show. He frowns, probably because she’s distracting him from his conversation. Ivo wraps it up, clapping him on the shoulder and striding away.

Killian’s eyes find mine. They’re pure, dusky blue.

His wolf isn’t there. It’s all him. His face is inscrutable. No emotion.

Haisley winds her arms around his neck. He lets her, watching me. There’s a challenge in his eyes. Why?

I swallow down the puke creeping up my throat.

Is this a test of my wolf? To see if she’s feral enough to attack again? Or if I’m strong enough to hold her back?

Or is it a message? He’s not mine. We’re not mates. Know my place.

Alfie elbows me in the side. I glance down. He jerks his chin toward the elder’s table. Cheryl’s there, waving at me, her thin, painted eyebrows arched to her hairline.

I give myself a shake and head over, scurrying to avoid Finn’s chair as he takes the exact moment I pass to push back from the table. He doesn’t even notice me. He’s still recounting some story over his shoulder as he makes for the bathroom.

I’m somewhat out of breath by the time I make it to Cheryl. She points at a bowl of potato salad. “Heat that up,” she says, not bothering to look at me. “It’s gone cold.”

“It’s a cold salad.” I watched Old Noreen take it out of the fridge and dump it out of the plastic tub myself.

“I didn’t ask for your culinary expertise. Go stick it in the microwave for a few minutes. Dermot wants it hot.”

Right. Shit flows downhill. I forgot for a second. I grab the bowl.

“And bring more brisket when you come back,” she calls after me.

“And a pitcher of beer,” Dermot adds.

“Make it two,” another elder tacks on.

At least I have something to do. Haisley’s still grinding up on Killian, but that’s not my business. My wolf is prowling back and forth as if my body’s a cage, whining in distress, but I’m solid. Test passed. Challenge accepted.

He does what he wants. I do what I want. Thanks to Abertha, we’re not mates.

I wouldn’t want him. He has no sense of humor, and he’s boring. His interests, as far as I can tell, are the shifter circuit, boxing, MMA, Brazilian jiu-jitsu, cardio, strength training, and “bulking.” He’s the prototypical Quarry Pack male. Even if he weren’t a massive dick, I wouldn’t be into him. He’s not my type.

My wolf disagrees, but she’s judging on different criteria—mostly smell.

She won’t let me check my phone when we get back to the kitchen. After I stick the potato salad in the oven—Old Noreen won’t hear of microwaving it—my wolf drives me to stand at the kitchen door and peek out the square window.

Haisley’s turned herself around, so now she’s sitting on Killian’s lap facing the open floor. They’re watching Gael and Conor spar. Killian’s barking at Gael. “Fists up. Step into him. Quit dancing.”

His arm is loosely wound around Haisley’s waist. She’s draped back against him. His fingers rest an inch above her hip bone on the bare strip of skin below her belly shirt.

I don’t care if he’s touching her stomach. If it feels like a horse kicked my gut, that’s because my brain hasn’t gotten the message yet that the bond is gone.