The Tyrant Alpha's Rejected Mate (Five Packs #1)(70)

The reality is—when whatever weirdness is happening now is over—I’m going to have to live in this pack. Better keep my head down and my mouth shut. It’s served me fairly well in life so far.

Killian flashes me another glance. The corners of his eyes are creased. I give him a smile. He looks even more worried.

“That’s enough,” he says, cutting off Ivo mid-sentence. “My mate needs to rest before dinner.”

And at exactly that second, when everyone’s staring, I spontaneously yawn.

The males laugh.

Eamon’s laugh in particular is loud with a cutting edge.





11





UNA





The further we get from Tye’s cabin, the more my tension eases. Killian lifts me down the stairs again, and then his hands don’t leave my body. He guides me by my elbow. The small of my back. My hip.

I’m not used to someone so close to my back, so focused on me. I trip a half dozen times, way more than usual.

And despite the crisp evening air, the wool in my brain is thicker than ever. The sun has sunk below the foothills. It’s almost dinner time, and I’m hungry, but as Killian and I walk side by side, I’m also drawn deeper, moment by moment, into a kind of tempting flow. I’m entranced.

I want to follow where Killian goes. Not for any reason, but because that’s the direction of the current.

I grasp the place our bond used to be, and it’s not empty anymore. The thread is a string now. The place where it roots into me tingles. Throbs.

Can it grow all the way back?

Abertha said the loss was permanent. No bond, no hope of children. Does she know for sure, though? She said she can’t predict what might happen. That the Fates have a tendency of getting their way in the end.

And I’m definitely not myself.

I’m always thinking. Planning. What needs doing? How can I get or make a new beekeeping veil? Who can I trade for sticker paper for my Cricut? Where can I find that vintage game called Street Fighter Alpha that Fallon’s been bugging me about?

But my brain’s quiet now. I’m going along, and there’s an ease to it. A pleasure and a peacefulness.

I walk beside Killian, his steps slow and measured so I don’t fall behind, his fingers wrapped around my arm, right above the crook of my elbow. As if I might bolt. Or I’m being arrested.

But the touch is gentle. And I know—somehow—it’s because if I trip, it’s the best way to keep me upright without hurting me.

“I’m usually pretty coordinated, you know,” I tell him as we pass B-roster’s row of cabins.

“You can show me when we get back to our den.” He smirks, teasing.

I roll my eyes. He tightens his grip on my arm. It’s not a warning, and it doesn’t hurt. It’s just firmer. More secure.

My heart beats faster.

I’m not going to sleep with him.

Just because he let me keep my phone, and he’s been decent for a few hours, doesn’t change the fact that he’s ruined my life. Or what happened the night I first went into heat.

You don’t get to take back something like that because it turns out you were wrong.

And I’m not a moonstruck kid. Not having a happily ever after isn’t going to break me. I already know that. I’ve gotten this far on my own, and it’s not half bad. As a matter of fact, I’m free, and free is pretty damn awesome.

I’ve got myself well in hand by the time we get back to Killian’s cabin. He lifts me up the stairs and throws open the front door like “ta da.”

At the same time, I see the brand-new sofa and rug, the smell slaps me in the face.

I force down the barf, eyes bugging.

Killian’s face falls. “What? It’s all new shit.”

“It smells like Cheryl now,” I manage between shallow breaths.

Killian drives his fingers through his hair, ruffling chestnut brown tufts. I’ve never seen him tousled before. His gaze darts back and forth, as if he’s looking for someone to bark an order at. There’s no one here but us.

“Just let me go home,” I say. Gently.

He heaves a sigh. “Stay here,” he orders. Then he disappears into the house. There’s a scraping sound. He emerges a few seconds later with a wooden rocking chair. It’s beautiful, polished and smooth in the way only really antique furniture gets.

“Sit,” he says.

I’m tired of sitting, but he looks at his wits’ end, and I’m almost beyond exhausted now. I’m hungry. Fuzziness is descending on my mind like drifts of fluffy snow.

I hear Killian call someone on his phone, and then it’s quiet for a while. I rock with my good leg and drift off. The sun sinks, and the foothills turn black against the pinkish orange horizon. Venus appears, super bright and all alone.

Thumps and thuds from the cabin wake me occasionally, but then I drift back off. Strange, almost waking dreams pass vaguely through my consciousness. A serious boy with Killian’s pale blue eyes, braiding my hair. Holding a cup of tea to my lips.

After what feels like a long time, but by the glow of the horizon, can only have been a half hour or so, the hum of a vacuum rouses me. I go peek inside.

Killian’s cleaning. He has the new rug rolled up, and he’s thrown all the windows open. Down the hallway, I can see the new sofa, armchair, and ottoman stacked by the back door. A mattress is leaning against them.