Filed To Story: Alpha's Regret: His Wrongful Rejection
Tell no one. Do nothing. Leadership is sacrifice, son. It’s not about you. It’s about the pack.
As if I don’t know that—live that—every moment of every day.
But isn’t Rosie pack?
Female. Are you in pain?
No answer.
Shit.
“Dude?” Kenny is hugging the bag to hold himself up, gawping at me.
“I need pain relief. Now.”
Kenny’s eyes bug like I’ve grown a second head.
“Don’t look at me like that. I know you use pain relief. My nose might be busted, but it functions.”
“Uh. Okay, man.” He staggers off toward the locker room.
Hold on. I’ll fix it.
I repeat in my head. There’s no reply—no change in the thready pitter-pitter-pat next to my heart.
What the hell is wrong with me? I didn’t consider that she could feel my pain like I felt hers.
Ialways consider the outcome of my actions. Ialways think.
Kenny trots back, holding a well-used plastic baggie with a gnarled root. “Here you go, man.”
“What is it? Is it human?” I don’t do drugs, herbs, potions, none of it.
“Not sure. It’s good shit, though. I got it from the witch, uh, I mean the wise woman.” He breaks off a chunk and hands it to me. It has the consistency of ginger, but it smells like what you’d find under a rotten log. “She calls it gumwood.”
“I eat it?” I snap and point to my water bottle on the side of the ring. A young Powell dashes to fetch it.
“No, man. You chew it up, and then you spread it on whatever hurts.”
That is possibly even more foul than eating it. “The wise woman is fucking with you.”
“No, I swear.” Kenny raises his hands. “That’s how it works.”
I lift the baggie high in the air and glare at the dozen or so males in the gym. “Who uses this shit?”
They all do. I’m not stupid. Of course, only Seth has the balls to admit it. He glances up from where he’s collapsed on a lifting bench and sighs. “Yeah, man. What?”
“I chew this and spread it on my skin? Is that how this works?”
“Yeah.”
I grit my teeth, take the bag, and head for the locker room. Kenny, Seth, and the Powell pup with my water bottle fall in behind me.
“Stay out until I call.” I grab the water. I’m gonna need it.
After I stick my phone in the speaker and turn on my music, I brace myself and bite a hunk off the root and start chewing. It tastes worse than it smells. Truly rancid.
I hock it into my palm and smear it on my face, my ribs, my knuckles. Damn if it doesn’t take the pain away almost immediately, everything except the burn in my mouth.
I go to the sink, rinse and spit about a hundred times, and listen to the bond again.
All better, female.
Female?
Nothing.
Which is good—I don’t need a scavenger in my head.
My skin and muscles grow numb, and my gut aches.
I force myself to breathe. The room is empty as I ordered. It’s quiet, the first I’ve been alone all day. Except for when I fall into bed, it’ll be the only few minutes I’ll have to myself, but I can’t relax.
If I break for a second, I’ll break completely.
I straighten my shoulders and turn the faucet to run hot with a vague idea of splashing the blood off my face, but instead, I stand and stare unseeing at my reflection.
I have a mate, and her name is Rosie Kemble.
Where is she right now?
She’s home. She must be. It’s after dark, and it’s a new moon.
But scavengers run the foothills any night of the month.
My throat tightens. I go to my phone.
She was at her trailer the last time my cousin Derwyn texted an update. That was a half hour ago. Much too long. I tap a message.
Status.
He responds immediately.
Same.
I inhale, trying to force down a deep breath, but my ribs are trapped in a vise.
She’s home. Safe. Watched. There is nothing more I can do.
Muffled voices rise outside of the door. Males are trying to convince Seth to disobey a command and come get me. It’s quarter to seven. We’re already late for a business dinner.
I switch the faucet to cold and stick my face in the water, sucking down a few more mouthfuls before I swish and spit. The slug and snail aftertaste isn’t going anywhere, but on the bright side, I didn’t lose any teeth sparring.
I lost more than a few in the first months of training with Killian Kelly. If I didn’t grab them quickly enough, he’d snatch them up and stick them in his pocket. He said he was making his mate a necklace.
Killian Kelly’s a barbarian, and Quarry Pack is hardly out of the dens. Father wants to bring them under our auspices. He believes it would be better for them, and they’d welcome us as liberators or something.
Doubtful. Before I learned to anticipate Killian’s moves, he got a shit ton of my teeth, and an alpha like Killian would rather die than submit.
But at the moment, I’m the heir, not the alpha. I’m the future. It’s not my call.
Not until I can beat Alban Hughes.
I pat my face dry with a thick cotton towel. Already, the bruises have faded yellow and green. Blank, dead eyes stare back from the mirror, unblinking.
My silent wolf watches. In contempt? Frustration? I have no idea.
Rosie’s unguarded eyes are dark brown. Mahogany. When she came to me in the cafeteria, it was like sun shining on polished wood.
My stomach cramps, and I bow forward, the pain stealing my breath. The wrongness.
My wolf looms in his cell, motionless. Alert. Aware. And on a different plane. Like he has been my whole life. I’m the one in control.
Killian says I’ll never reach my full potential until I set him free.