The Tyrant Alpha's Rejected Mate (Five Packs #1)(99)

What do I do?

The path forward is so unclear. There are so many enemies. So many dangers. The only certain thing is that Una belongs to me.

And I would do anything to keep her safe.

Last winter, when I was on a run with my father, we came across an old wolf up in the hills, a male gone feral in his youth. He’d triggered a landslide somehow, and he was at the bottom of a ravine, dragging himself along with his front paws, trailing blood in the dirt.

He must’ve been trapped by a falling rock. He’d gnawed off his own hind leg to free himself.

My father put him down. Ripped his throat out as the old wolf bared it in deference. My father had called it a mercy. There is no place in our pack for a defective wolf.

I think of that old grizzled male as I finish with Una’s hair, braiding it as best I can so she doesn’t work it into knots again. I don’t have anything to tie the end, so I lay it carefully on her chest. She has pretty hair. Brown like a chestnut.

Her wounds are deep. Despite the crone’s best efforts, there is no way they won’t leave marks. The pack will see her as defective.

But she is perfect.

There is only one choice.

I can’t change what happened, so I have to change what will.

I take the cup and drink deep. It’s bitter, and it burns my throat. And then I hook my elbow behind Una’s neck, prop her up, kiss her clammy forehead, and coax her to open her lips. I pour the rest down her throat.

She grumbles and bats at me with a small hand.

As blackness rushes toward me, roaring, I pray that when I find her again, I will have made the right decisions.

That I won’t have done this for nothing.

“Where’d you go? You all right, Alpha?” Darragh claps me on the thigh.

I blink, shaking away the cobwebs. “Yeah.”

I leap to my feet. My heart pounds. I remember. My arms feel empty, like I realized too late I let everything slip away.

Where’s Una? How could I have left her alone, even for a minute?





14





UNA





I pick myself up.

It’s easier this time because if there’s pain, I can’t feel it. All my wolf and I know is rage.

That asshole.

That hypocritical, backwards bully.

Why did I expect any different? I’ve known Killian Kelly my entire life, and what exactly in his illustrious past convinced me that he’d be any better than this?

The lifetime spent beating the shit out of other shifters?

The throne on the dais where he lounges while females throw themselves at him and he barks orders at us lesser folk?

I’m a fool.

I knew what he was, and here I am with his jizz still dripping down my leg.

I grab a blanket from the nest and scrub, but now his scent is in my skin. It’s everywhere. The nest. The air.

What if he knocked me up? What have I done?

I can’t blame heat. It’s there, in the background, receded now, crowded out by fury and hurt. But even in the moment, I wasn’t lost to it. It hasn’t come on in its fullness yet, thank Fate.

Can I stop it?

I have to. I have to go see Abertha, but she’s gone on walkabout or a spirit quest or a spa retreat or whatever.

I pace the room. I have to do something. I can’t stay here and wait to lose my mind like in the blackberry patch. What would he do if I begged him now? Call me a slut?

That’s what he thinks, isn’t it? That I’m damaged goods? My jacked-up leg he can overlook, but my missing hymen’s the end of the damn world?

Well, screw him and his double standards. I’m not standing here and waiting for him to come back. I head for the door, bound and determined, but when I pass the bed, my steps slow.

No, this is wrong.

I can’t leave my nest.

Not here, in Killian’s house.

He doesn’t deserve my nest.

Asshole.

The rage crashes through me again, and I grab a sheet and start stripping the bed. I fill my arms, over and over, shoving as many blankets and quilts as I can into the hamper until it’s overflowing. I lay a comforter on the floor and pile pillows and clothes and towels into it. Then I tie the ends and drag it down the hall toward the kitchen.

Killian has his own washer and dryer in a mud room at the back of the house. I’ve got at least ten loads here, but I can get it started before I blow this pop stand.

I cram sheets into the washer, fill it up well past where I should. I hope it gets off-balanced. I hope I burn it out.

My nose itches. I swipe at my face with a fitted sheet, and it comes away damp. I’m crying.

I don’t want to be.

Killian Kelly isn’t worth it.

And you know what?

Screw doing his laundry. I’m gonna throw it all in the garbage.

I limp back to the bedroom. My bad leg is stiff, and I’m cold. I’m only wearing the gray T-shirt I pulled on after Killian ran like a scared pup. After I take what’s left of my nest out to the trash cans, I’m going home.

Killian probably won’t even care now that he’s filled me with his baby batter. He’s been outside all this time, talking to some male like nothing’s wrong. Oh, Fate. Was Haisley right?

It makes no sense, but that makes me madder than the rest of it.

I shove the linens down into his trash can as hard as I can. I don’t want to make too many trips.