The Tyrant Alpha's Rejected Mate (Five Packs #1)(4)

Heat.

Of course. Oh, Fate, it’s beyond obvious. That’s why my brain is so slow.

I’m going into heat.

My wolf’s ears shoot up. She yips and chases her tail. She’s not really moving—it’s how she feels. I’m anthropomorphizing her emotions. Or whatever it’s called when a spirit lives inside you. It feels like she’s dancing, though. She’s ecstatic. She can finally come out and play.

I want to meet her so bad. Hope swells in my chest. She’s gotten quiet these past few years, deflated, but she’s letting herself be heard now. She’s demanding. Whining.

Outside, outside, outside.

And then she changes her mind. No, him.

Him, him, him.

I raise my eyes to Killian’s, and even though I know better, I can’t force my gaze to lower. You don’t meet an alpha’s eyes. That’s a challenge. Even from a lone female. It’s ingrained in our DNA. I shouldn’t be able to help but defer. He won’t be able to stop himself from knocking me down if I don’t.

Shit. I focus as hard as I can until my neck bends, but I’m still gazing up from under my lashes. I can’t stop. He’s fascinating.

I bet he tastes like melted toffee. Or taffy.

I bet he feels like when a summer storm rolls in and the clouds race and there’s the sizzle in the air from the lightning.

Mine, mine, mine.

My wolf paws at my ribs. She wants out. I don’t know how to let her, and this is crazy. I’m scared and shaking, but wild horses couldn’t tear me away from devouring my alpha with my eyes. I need him.

I’m sopping wet. Between the legs. My hand reaches down, searching. Oh, Fate. What am I doing? In the middle of the frickin’ lodge? I snatch it back to my chest at the last second.

What’s wrong with me? That’s Killian Kelly. He’s a tyrant, and a dick, and all he cares about are the fights. He’s the reason Moon Lake thinks we’re backwards, and they’re always making noise about how it’d be better if their pack absorbed ours.

I’ve known Killian my whole life, and every year, he’s worse.

Mate.

No. He’s not my mate. No way. I’d have had an inkling.

Wouldn’t I?

Wouldn’t he?

He slowly rises to his feet, chest thrown back, a fighting stance. A growl rolls from the back of his throat. He scrubs his pecs with the flat of his hand like he has indigestion. His brow furrows. He’s as confused as I am. This doesn’t make any sense.

My wolf replies with a rumble.

She makes a noise!

It’s kind of a sassy purr. I press my palm above my breasts. Holy crap, my solar plexus is vibrating. Whoa. She’s really in there. She’s not a figment of my imagination. I didn’t somehow eat her in utero like a vanishing twin.

My eyes prickle. I’m going to shift. Finally. I need to get out of here. I need wide open spaces, room to run, and—

Out of nowhere, without waiting for his nod of approval, Haisley Byrne saunters to the dais, steps up to Killian, wraps her arms around his neck, and shoves her boobs into his side. Then she rises up on her tiptoes and kisses him full on the mouth. He goes rigid.

He doesn’t avert his eyes. He’s looking at me while she sucks his face.

No.

Ours.

An inhuman wail—both a yowl and a roar—fills my ears from inside my skull.

My spine rips out of my skin.

Pain cascades through me, bursting from the inside out, an explosion of splintering bone and shredding muscle. I’m dying. I’m being torn apart.

I scream, collapsing to the ground. My joints break with a sick pop, and I lay powerless against the contortions, staring unblinking at the dais. Haisley’s jaw has dropped. Killian’s—holding himself back?

His fists are clenched, his teeth gritted, as if he’s straining to control himself.

My vision is like a camera focusing. Everything is small and far away, and then it’s close and bright and too vivid. I can see the cracks in the linoleum. Dust motes suspended in the air. The golden rings around Killian’s pupils blow wide and then contract into pure black.

In the kitchen, a dish shatters. Everyone’s heart is beating in an uneven rhythm. It’s a roar filling the room, a wave beating against a shore.

I can smell everything. Meat. Blood. That bitch. Her coconut shampoo and her vanilla lotion mixed with sweat. She’s touching my mate, rubbing her scent on him.

A faint, panicked voice, far away, pleads to stop, think, wait a minute, but she—I—don’t listen. I am the wolf, and she’s encroaching on our mate.

I leap, baring my fangs, snarling, every movement an agony as my body tries to reknit mid-motion, joints and sinews mending as I simultaneously rip them anew. I mean to lunge, attack, but there’s something wrong with my back leg, so I have to drag the useless limb as I go for that bitch, snapping my teeth.

I can’t stop. Everything’s in the wrong place, the wrong proportion, and there’s no color, but scents swirl and speak.

I’m weak—I know I am—but she can’t touch him. He’s mine.

I raise my muzzle and howl.

There are hoots and catcalls behind me. She says human words from her fake red mouth.

I bark at her. Shift, bitch. Fight me. Let him go and come. I’ll tear your pelt from your hide. I’ll destroy you for touching my mate.