The Tyrant Alpha's Rejected Mate (Five Packs #1)(87)

“It’s not a buffet.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Oh? Then what is it?”

“You said it yourself. A sinking ship.”

I bark a laugh. She scowls. I finish the filet and lick my fingers. She can’t tear her eyes away. Her throat swells gently as she swallows.

A whiff of her arousal teases my senses.

I’m suddenly twice as hungry as I was before I ate.

A few male heads turn from their food, noses twitching. Oh, hell, no. Not for them.

My wolf lunges. Somehow, Una manages to grab the plate of venison as he leaps through the air, snarling and snapping, landing hard enough to rattle the empty chairs. He bares his fangs, pacing the open floor, forcing the males to back their tables further away and scoot their chairs.

He’s like a rabid sentry, patrolling a line, getting up in the faces of random males whose necks aren’t bent quite far enough for his satisfaction. I should rein him in. This is our pack. They are no threat to me. And we’re wolves. There’s no such thing as a private scent.

And I am inordinately proud of the proof of Una’s impending heat. It marks her as mine.

And it’s not like Una’s trying to lure a male. Or any would have a chance of getting within twenty feet of her. My wolf has made damn sure of that.

I need to put him back on the chain. I’m stressing the pack, upending the natural order, and that way inevitably leads to a challenge.

I want one. I want an enemy I can slay. The wolf and I both. But it would cause havoc when I need shit calm to focus on Una.

And my pack is showing their necks as they go about chowing down. I’m out of control, and they’re unsurprised. Mildly put out by the inconvenience but unfazed. Am I so unreasonable that this is par for the course?

I release one last howl for good measure and pad back to my mate. She’s feeding herself. She’s almost cleaned the plate. She grins at me. There’s a smudge of grease at the very corner of her mouth. I shift and as I go to sit, I grip her neck and lick her clean. Then I plop my bare ass on the cold metal and hold out my hand. Gael tosses me a pair of shorts from halfway across the room. Dude has excellent aim, too.

Thank Fate he’s wearing boxers.

“You full?” I ask.

Una lifts a delicate shoulder, and her neckline falls so my bite peeks out. A growl vibrates in my chest. It isn’t hunger. Not the kind that can be satisfied here.

I don’t know how much longer I can hold out. My cock aches, my balls throb, and there’s a constant urge inside me—drag her closer, bite her again so everyone sees, take her back to her nest.

Is this rut? I thought I was immune. I’ve never had a problem resisting temptation before. I’m a flip-shifter. I have full control over my physical body. I operate on a higher level. The good of the pack. The safety of our future.

Oh, I am a prideful fool.

My palms are damp, my face is flushed, and I’m hanging on by a thread.

If it comes down to it, I will beg this female. I will give her anything she wants. I am weak for her, and I don’t give a damn.

I will go fetch her another plate of venison.

“Want more?” My voice is husky. There’s a lot of the wolf in it.

She clenches her thighs, her dress clinging to her lush curves. She shakes her head no. “I’m good.”

Her eyes are downcast. The sweet, warm smell of her grows stronger. Intoxicating. She flutters the neckline of her dress, cooling her flushed chest, drawing my eye to the pattern of my fangs in her rosy flesh. Is her heat back?

I don’t think so. She’s perspiring, but her eyes are clear. She’s watching the pack. She seems nervous. Jumpy.

Makes me jumpy.

And then—so gradually that it takes a few seconds to register—a hush falls. Lochlan has pushed his chair back, and he’s standing at the B-roster table, chest puffed. Finn and Eamon are standing at his back, in formation.

My wolf growls low in anticipation. A challenge. My fangs descend. I lick the tip of an incisor. My wolf basks in the collective gulp of our packmates.

I will very much enjoy finishing off Lochlan Byrne.

But it’s not Lochlan who speaks. He glowers while Eamon strides forward to the middle of the open floor.

“Alpha,” he calls. “A word.”

My mouth waters.

Eamon’s hair might be gray, and his hands, especially, are mottled with age spots, but he hasn’t begun the rapid decline that marks the end of a shifter’s life. He still has bulk, and his stoop doesn’t slow his gait.

He hunts more than fights these days, but he still puts in hours at the gym, usually late at night with Lochlan and his crew. Telling them stories about the good old days when he was beta to my father and folks knew their place.

I have his number. He can’t win against me in a fight, so his challenge has to be more insidious. I know he’s been poisoning the well, gathering the disaffected. It’ll get him nowhere. All the males in this pack banded together can’t beat me.

But it will be sweet to remind them.

I wave my hand at him to speak.

The elders perk up and hush each other. He is the greatest of their generation. They put up with Dermot as a mouthpiece, but Dermot’s loyalties are with me at the end of the day, not them. Eamon is their champion. The last vestige of their waning strength. My father’s male.

He clears his throat. “You’ve taken a mate.”