Filed To Story: Alpha's Regret: His Wrongful Rejection
I ignore him. He’s not my problem.
My problem just strode into the Commons in a gust of woodsmoke and pine. He stops in the entrance, his presence unmistakably dominant, his fitted gray jacket, blue dress shirt, and gray pants screaming human wealth and class. He looks like an actor perfectly cast in a part. Square jaw. Sharp cheekbones. Ice cold stare.
The human businessman. They’re called sharks. The name fits.
My heart stammers, and my face flushes. The bond comes to life.
Nia and Seth have bent their heads. That’s what you do when the alpha or his heir enters a room or walks past. I don’t mean not to bend mine, but I hesitate, and then by no conscious decision on my part, I’m stuck with my head raised, frozen by his inscrutable regard, and I can’t even lower my eyes.
My wolf rouses herself to sit upright, and her head cocks. She regards him right back, and she notices something that I’m too intimidated to see, a silver glimmer behind his eyes.
He’s standing there, the lord of all he surveys, per usual, and his expression and stance—everything down to his precise haircut with its ruler straight edges—it all says that he’s the dominant wolf. He’ll approach us when he wants, or we’ll come to him, if that’s what he prefers. He’s the alpha in all but name. That’s what anyone would see. That’s reality.
But it occurs to me as the seconds tick by—and for no good reason, it’s just a sense, maybe a delusion—but I think that he’s waiting for permission.
My permission. He’s waiting for me to give him the nod.
The tension is getting unbearable. There’s only one way to find out.
I muster up a half-shrug, half-nod, half-grimace and aim it at him. It’s the best I can do.
He gives his cuffs two quick yanks to straighten his sleeves and heads over toward us.
My nerves spike. I wipe my damp palms on the lap of my sundress, under the table where no one can see.
He stops directly in front of me. Even though he’s a step down, I’m seated, so he’s plenty tall enough to loom over me.
Nia eases the remainder of her steak onto her plate and grabs her fork and knife. Seth rises to his feet, awaiting orders.
“Take that one to the kitchen to finish her meal and then send her to class.” Cadoc doesn’t spare Nia a glance. He’s focused on my untouched steak.
Nia tenses and catches my eye. She’ll refuse to go if I want her to stay. I’m sure Seth would haul her off like a pup throwing a tantrum, but she’d still do it for me. I’d do it for her, too, even though making a scene isn’t generally my thing.
She’s visibly disappointed when I give my head a slight shake.
She makes a great show of shoving her chair back, scraping it across the polished hardwood, snatching her plate and her glass, sloshing water over the side. Seth’s irritation is palpable. Cadoc doesn’t pay her the slightest attention.
He’s frowning at my plate.
He waits until Seth and Nia are gone before he takes the seat across from me and asks, “Why are you refusing to eat?”
Refusing?
He nudges my plate closer toward me.
“Is it not to your liking?” Unlike Seth, he doesn’t sound sarcastic, but as if it’s entirely possible that my palate is too sophisticated for a prime cut the likes of which I’ve never seen before. As Rae says, high-ranking nobs are a different species.
“I’m sure it’s fine. I just can’t eat.”
“Why not?”
“Well, the smell for one.”
He sniffs the air. “What smell? The floor cleaner?”
The female who was mopping has disappeared, but the odor of lemon and bleach remains, although it doesn’t even begin to cover Seth’s reek.
“No. Seth.” He’s far enough away now that I’m not inundated, but the stench clings.
Cadoc’s lips turn down. “What do you mean?”
Does he not know? Well, I didn’t either until Nia told me. “I guess other males smell gross when you’re newly mated.” My cheeks burn. “Or whatever.”
I pick up my fork and poke the meat for something to do with my hands. Pink juices well where the tines pierce the char. My stomach growls at the same time a wave of heat crashes through me, leaving me dizzy and shaking. My body doesn’t know what it is—hungry, sick, hot, or something else.
The hand Cadoc was casually resting on the table tightens into a fist.
“You aren’t well.” He’s displeased. Well, me, too.
I slump back against the high back of the cool leather booth. “I’ve felt better.”
He looks like he’s handling this fine. He’s kind of hulked out and stressed, but he’s not sweaty and red and agitated.
He exhales and glares off at the televisions above the bar, his gaze unfocused. After a minute or so, he looks back at me. “What do you need?”
There’s a gush between my legs, warm and sticky. His nostrils twitch. His clenched fist tightens, the skin taut across his swollen, red knuckles. He has rough hands for a nob. Fighting hands.
My core contracts, a spasm almost like a cramp, but it doesn’t hurt. I squeeze my thighs together and start sawing at the steak, desperate to change the subject.
My nipples have hardened into exquisitely sensitive points, and my lace bra feels like steel wool. The cotton sundress might as well be made from sandpaper. I curve my shoulders as far forward as I can, trying to put space between the fabric and my skin.
Cadoc watches me as I shove a bite into my mouth and furiously chew. I must look like a total animal.
He very intentionally unclenches his fist and rests his hands on the table in a deliberate, nonaggressive way. Then he clears his throat. “We should talk about, uh, how we’re going to do this.”
I fork another bite into my mouth before I swallow the first. I don’t want to talk about that. Nope.
“It would be best to make a plan,” he goes on, focusing on a spot on the wall over my head. “Set some boundaries. Expectations. That sort of thing.”
The heat fizzles. Apparently, the words “boundaries” and “expectations” are total turnoffs.
“Maybe you should start with your thoughts,” he says. I shove more meat in my mouth. “After you swallow.”
I finish every last bite, chewing thoroughly and chugging water, until my belly’s so tight you could bounce a quarter off it. The persistent nausea has a new, ominous quality to it, but my wolf is happier. She’s looking on Cadoc with a kinder light now that he’s had us fed.
I set down my silverware, and Cadoc inclines his head, prompting me to speak.
“I don’t understand what you want me to say.”
He inhales, not in impatience, but like he’s bracing himself. “If we’re going to be, uh, intimate, we should—you should tell me what you like. What’s permitted. What you expect in return. That kind of thing.”
Does he think I whore myself? What’s permitted? Like Drona won’t do anal, but she’ll swallow?
Stupid tears spring to the corner of my eyes, and I blink furiously. Of course, he thinks that. Plenty of scavengers turn tricks, and despite what the nobs think, there’s no shame in it if it feeds the pups and keeps the elders warm. The shame is on them for insisting the allotment baskets last a month when they don’t and leaving packmates hungry.
He can think I whore if he wants. Not sure when I’d have time with all Abertha gives me to do, but I’m not gonna act like it’s an insult to take care of your people.
Still, my eyes prickle.
Cadoc notices and frowns. He glances around the room like he’s looking for help, but no one’s there. Finally, he passes me Nia’s unused cloth napkin. I stick it in my backpack.
His frown deepens. “Why’d you do that?”
“Didn’t you give it to me?”
“I did. For you to—” He sort of waves at my face.
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and sniff a few times. I’m good. It was a momentary blip, no doubt caused by the epic hormones transforming me into a freaking kiln.
“Do you want it back then?” I go to reach into my pack, but Cadoc’s hand darts out and grabs my wrist. His palm is rougher than I would’ve thought it’d be.
“Is this like the watch?” he asks. His brow is slightly furrowed, and for once, his eyes are lit with interest. Or he’s not guarding his expression. “Do you see the napkin like a souvenir? Like a gift?”
“No.” Souvenirs are what the nobs bought with their human money on our field trips to the human city. Gifts are what you give someone you care about. So, no, it’s not a gift either.