The Tyrant Alpha's Rejected Mate (Five Packs #1)(98)

“You did well, boy,” she said. “You protected your mate.”

“Will she live?”

“I think so.”

“How long will I be like this?”

The crone shrugs. “I’ve never seen a male shift so young. Maybe a week, a month, a year. Only the Fates can say.”

“I need a gun.”

She arches an eyebrow. “What does a shifter need with a gun?”

“I have to protect her. I can’t fight. Not like this.” I try to lift an arm, but I can hardly raise it an inch.

“You can’t shoot them all, Killian Kelly. You’ll have to beat them, one by one.”

“Like this?”

She smiles, the crinkles in the corners of her eyes deepening. “You’ll need a little more bulk, I think. Especially to best Eamon Byrne.”

“I don’t want to be alpha.” I want to spar with Tye and hunt for Una. Make her strong. Maybe teach her to fight so my heart never again stops in my chest like it did on the commons when I heard her scream. I knew in that moment she was mine. And I’ve never known such fear.

“That’s why you’ll make a good one,” the crone says.

“No.” What do I want with a bunch of ass kissers and two-faced males lying in wait to take me down?

“Oh, Killian.” She shakes her head, not unkindly. “You don’t have a choice. Do you want to protect your mate?”

“I will. No one touches her. Ever again.”

“How can you say that? In this pack?” And then she looks at my mother.

My father’s mate. The bruise on her cheek has faded yellow, but there’s no doubt in my mind, she has fresh ones somewhere else, somewhere she can cover with her long skirts and sleeves.

“I’ll never hurt Una. I’ll never let anyone hurt her.”

“You couldn’t stop it today.” Her voice is gentle, and her words cut to the bone.

I push Una’s hair out of her face. It’s sticking to her clammy cheeks. “What do I do?”

“You put things right.”

“How?”

“Everything has happened out of order. We need to pause time. Give you space to do what needs to be done.”

She’s speaking mystic nonsense now. I need to know who to kill, and in what order.

She presses the cooling tea into my free hand. “You can’t protect her like this. You need to grow into your strength. You’ll need all your focus to root out the evil in this pack.”

“Tell me what to do.” I’m so tired. So terrified. My wolf prowls inside me on shaking limbs. He’s weak, too.

“Drink,” she says, glancing down at the dark brew in the cup. I sniff. It has no smell.

My grip is unsteady. The liquid sloshes over the rim. “What is it?”

“A choice.” She covers my hand with hers. “Let her go—for now. Let her be happy while you grow strong so you can make her safe.”

“Or?”

“Be selfish. See your mate as a possession, not a gift. You won’t be alone. You’ll be in good company in this pack.”

“And if I drink this, she’ll be safe?”

The crone’s gray eyes grow moist. There’s a deep sadness in them, a hopelessness that riles my wolf. He doesn’t surrender, and the sight pisses him off.

“Yes,” she says. “That’s what I’m betting.”

“But are you sure?”

“No. I can’t see the future. But I’m depending on you. And so is she.” She nods at Una.

My mate is so pale, she’s almost gray. I can’t sense her wolf at all.

“She didn’t shift.”

“She couldn’t. She’s not like you.”

“Where’s her wolf now?”

The crone’s lips wobble before she forces a smile. “Hiding for now. She’ll be back in time. Usually, the wolf is braver than the girl, but in this case, the girl has the heart of a lion.”

It’s true, but the crone’s words provoke my temper. “She doesn’t need the heart of a lion. I’ll protect her.”

“I know you will.” The crone gently guides the cup to my lips. “Drink.”

I don’t. I am not one to do what I’m told. Instead, I watch my mate.

She squirms, restless, fighting the sheet. Her hair is tangled from her head turning back and forth. She’s feverish.

I rest my free hand lightly on the spot above her belly button, the only part of her that Thomas Fane’s claws missed. This must be where she tucked the baby.

A fierceness surges through my veins. Pride. A gratitude so powerful it’s a hallelujah.

“Will it hurt her if I drink?”

“Some might say so. I wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“She’ll be free. She won’t be waiting. She’ll find her own way.”

I comb my fingers through her hair, gently loosening the tangles. Some strands are stiff with dried blood. “She’s mine. She should be with me.”

I expect the crone to argue, but instead, she gives me a sad smile, pats my shoulder, and takes the cup and sets it on the bedside table. Then, she shuffles off to stoke the fire.