Filed to story: Alpha's Regret: His Wrongful Rejection
There’s a splash in the marsh behind me. I swirl, immediately assuming a fighting stance.
“Whoa, man. It’s just me.” Derwyn waves from waist deep in the muck.
I squint. He’s covered in mud except for his white teeth. “Are you wearing camouflage waders?”
“Yup. They got socks sewn in.” He grins. “It’s cold as shit, though. Can I clock out?”
“Yes.” He shouldn’t be here. So close to her.
My wolf is still on his feet, claws primed. His disapproval seeps through me.
Derwyn’s smile fades. “Okay. Well, uh, text me when you need me, boss.”
He hauls himself onto the board, nearly capsizing it, and hustles off the way I came. Only when his scent fades does my wolf stand down.
I’m left alone, ten feet from Rosie’s trailer. It’s quiet except for muffled voices a few yards away and the occasional honk of a bullfrog.
The screen door on its rickety frame is propped open with a paw, same as in the picture Derwyn sent, but in a slightly different position.
That must be the uncle, Dewey Kemble, the man of the house. His back leg shakes as if he’s chasing rabbits in his dreams.
Do I knock? Announce myself?
She knows I’m here.
If I can scent her, she scents me. What do I smell like to her?
I sniff my collar. Smells like aftershave and curry.
She’s not going to come out on her own. Not after what happened at the Commons. She can’t be pleased that she didn’t get the response she was looking for.
Or maybe she will come out. She’ll have decided on a price. She’ll have red lips and her tits out, and she’ll purr “want to put something in my box” like her female relatives do when I walk past on the solstice.
My fists tighten, and my cock jerks. I’ll scrub her face clean if she does that. Her mouth, too.
Where the hell did that come from?
I force my hands to loosen.
That kind of thinking isn’t me. I’m not feral. It must be the impending rut talking.
“What’s he doin’?” A stage whisper from inside the house breaks the silence. The raspy-voiced female isn’t Rosie. She sounds older.
“Looks like he’s trying to decide whether or not he wants to punch the house.” That’s Rosie. Her words roll over me in a rush—like when you’ve been running hard for miles and the second wave of endorphins kick in. I straighten.
She sounds cranky. My lips twitch unbidden.
“Why’s he smilin’ now?” Another female speaks. She doesn’t bother lowering her voice.
They’re gathered just inside the door, and all three share a similar scent. Rosie’s is the brightest, though.
“What’s he want?” The older female sounds even more suspicious than the loud one.
“How would I know?” Rosie answers.
“He’s yours, isn’t he?”
I’m instantly hard as a rock. I can only hope the night is dark enough to allow some dignity.
“Don’t want him,” Rosie says. For a second, my lips curve again of their own volition. I immediately school my expression. A smile from an alpha confers favor, and favor must be allotted judiciously.
“Is he drunk or high?” the loud one wonders.
“It’s nothing to me, either way.” Rosie’s words are salty, but her voice is sweet. Terrifyingly gentle.
“He’s gonna draw attention, standing there like that.”
The door creaks on its hinges. A female in her late-twenties with Rosie’s black hair pokes her head out. There’s a harshness to her. This must be the sister Drona. She’s the loud one.
“It’ll be some kind of hassle, mark my words,” she says.
“Don’t care.” Rosie’s voice is fainter. She’s stepped back further into the trailer.
No.
I don’t want that.
“Rosie, come out.” The words slip from my mouth with a resonance I don’t intend. It’s an alpha command. My face heats. I haven’t unintentionally issued a command in years.
A scuffle ensues in the doorway. A sleepy yowl. The dangling paw is jerked inside. Rosie is thrust out by arms jingling to the elbows with gold bracelets.
Rosie trips down the single step to the boards and wobbles a moment before finding her balance.
“Don’t want no trouble, Alpha Heir,” Drona says and slams the door.
Rosie stares at me. Her eyes are burnished brown, sparkling in the light spilling from the trailer window. The air is sucked from my lungs.
Her back is pressed to the door, and she scrabbles at the doorknob with no luck.
What is she wearing?
They’re obviously castoffs—ripped jeans, a faded navy T-shirt with a gaping neckline that reads “Moon Lake Corporate Summer Retreat 2014,” and a green, pilled cardigan. Her feet are bare. There’s a silver ring on her pinky toe.
Who gave her that?
My wolf bares his fangs.
“Who gave you the ring?” I clear my throat. My tone is harsher than called for.
She glances down at her feet, her forehead furrowing. She curls her small toes.
“Nia,” she mumbles, keeping her gaze lowered.
I search her neck, wrists, hands. No other jewelry. My wolf’s fur smooths back down.
Rosie tucks a lock of hair behind her ears, and then her fingers wander to the big buttons on her old man sweater. She fiddles with them and swallows, drawing my attention to the pulse fluttering in her slender throat.
Her collarbone juts from her skin inches above the mounds of her tits. She has a breeder’s curvy body, but she’s also delicate—her fingers, her ears, her nose with its slightly pinched tip.
It’s a pleasing combination—the big breasts and ass coupled with the fine features. It’s unusual.
I scrub my chest. The bond is singing now. My hard dick chafes against my boxers.
I will her eyes to stay down so she doesn’t notice, and of course, at that moment, her gaze darts up to my belt. Bright red lollipops burst into her cheeks. She’s blushing again. She’s the pinkest female I’ve ever met.
She nervously licks her lips. I stifle a groan.
What does her mouth taste like?
What would she do if I crossed the distance between us and found out? If I bit that plump bottom? My cock swells.
I clench my fists again. She is mine to take. It’s a biological fact. She can’t deny it. My straining muscles cramp with the effort of holding my arms lax at my side.
I am not a Bog-dweller. I have discipline.