Filed To Story: Alpha's Regret: His Wrongful Rejection
“Are you sick?” I take a step forward. She raises a hand, warding me off. My throat tightens.
“Go away.” Her voice is weak. “You can’t be in here.”
“You haven’t been eating.”
She stares at the floor at my feet, clutching the wet cloth tight in her fist.
“You keep leaving class.”
Her breasts rise as she draws in a deep breath. She’s wearing a baggy sweater, but my dick still gets hard. At least she’s not looking at me.
“Listen—” I start, not sure what I’m going to say.
“No.” Her gaze lifts to fix on the door behind me, and she hikes her chin. “You don’t get to care this much.” She holds her finger and thumb an inch apart. “This much doesn’t count.”
Her bottom lip wobbles, and every atom in my body strains toward her. She’s ten feet away—too far—but we’re alone together. I know that she’s safe. Even though she’s hurting, nothing else can hurt her while I’m here, so I can breathe. For the first time in weeks.
I can’t leave. My muscles wouldn’t comply.
And then, out of nowhere, her face drains of the little color it had left. She drops the cloth. It hits the tile with a wet slap. “You’re checking up on me.”
Her eyes darken and flit from corner to corner. Her pulse beats erratically in her slender throat.
“No,” she snarls. “Stay the hell away from me. You stay with your people. I’ll stay with mine.”
She gathers herself, making herself as tall and fierce as she can, stepping to me, staring me down, but the top of her head doesn’t clear my chest. And she trembles.
The scent of her fear burns my eyes. I step aside. I let her go.
I have no choice.
She’s right.
My hands shake as I pick up the cloth, rinse it, wring it dry, and fold it, but once I tuck it in my pocket, I’m steady again.
In control.
And empty.
* * *
The solstice has passed, but the worst of winter hasn’t shown itself yet. There’s no snow on the ground, so we’re still outside for Human Sport. Arnold, the instructor, believes this is excellent weather to run marathons. It certainly makes the humans bitch.
Today, we’re running the track. No one feels like chasing down the scavengers who inevitably use the opportunity to ditch if we run the path around the lake or the trails in the woods.
Rosie’s not bothering to try. She’s strolling with Nia.
Rosie hasn’t spoken to me since the bathroom. She won’t look me in the eye. If she can avoid me, she does.
It’s better this way. The gossip has died down. Everyone figures I got what I wanted, and I’m on to the next thing. I’ve allowed Lowry to take Brynn’s place in my entourage, and she’s happy to hang off me. I didn’t figure her for a rank chaser, but it works out. She serves a purpose.
Rosie hurts when I let Lowry touch me. I keep a tally in my mind, and when I get to Quarry Pack, I let Killian take it out of my hide before I fight back. He thinks I’m losing my focus because of it—or I’ve got the yips or something—so he works me harder. That serves a purpose, too.
Out on the track, I’ve set my pace so that the others can’t keep up. There’s the side benefit that I get to lap Rosie. When I come up behind her, I cut close to her, subtly so no one else notices. Her spine stiffens, and she ducks her head, showing her neck. She’s trying to put distance between us. She must have no idea how my mouth is watering.
Or how close I came to claiming her.
How I dream about it. Think about it all the time.
She’s put on a few pounds. I like it. At first, after the mating, she wasn’t eating. I had Derwyn take her carryout from all the best lakeside restaurants. He said she gave it to her family.
The past few weeks, she must have her appetite back, though. Even though her T-shirt swims on her, I can tell her tits are overflowing her bra. I’ll buy her some new ones. Drona and the others will probably be delighted to get them.
My lip quirks, and I push harder coming around the curve, so I can lap her again more quickly.
Rosie is the stubbornest female I’ve ever met. She’s not rude or aggressive about it, but she’s decided I’m beneath her notice, and that’s that. It’s good. Safer. It only pisses me off constantly.
When I come up behind her, I inhale. Her spices uncoil the knot in my gut. Her scent has changed recently. It has a strange note to it. Sweet like vanilla.
Her nose quivers as I jog past. She can’t help but scent me, too. Her feelings surge through the bond, the usual anger and pain. The longing that she must hate.
I don’t hate it. It hurts like a bitch, but I wouldn’t numb it if I could.
I break into a sprint once I’m past her. The frigid air rakes my lungs, I’ve got a massive hard on in gray sweatpants, and I know this is going to be the happiest I get to be today. My life is this track, racing full speed in a fucking circle.
I’m several yards behind Rosie when she lurches off the track into the grass. Nia’s there beside her, arm wound around Rosie’s waist for support, as Rosie bends over and heaves. The females running past stop to gawk and snicker.
“Keep going,” I bark as I slow. I approach with caution. Both Rosie and Nia’s backs are to me. Rosie’s sucking down deep, ragged breaths, and Nia’s murmuring while she tucks straggly locks of hair behind Rosie’s delicate ears.
I hear footsteps behind me. Mr. Arnold. Seth. Brody and Vaughn.
I stop a few feet away so that the other males won’t go closer. My muscles tense, and my adrenaline spikes.
I’d been wondering. The appetite. The boobs.
I didn’t use a condom. It wasn’t a conscious choice not to use one. I was too out of my mind to have thought it through. I just didn’t.
Rosie could be carrying my pup. Right now. My seed growing in her belly.
Vulnerable.
Unprotected.
My fists clench. I’m getting stronger. Impossibly stronger. I can take more punishment than any male in Quarry Pack or Moon Lake. I can come back when every other male has tapped out. But can I take down a flip-shifter?
Mr. Arnold steps up to me. “Should I radio the infirmary to send someone?”
“No,” Rosie moans.
“It’s fine. We’re good,” Nia says while she yanks her shoe away to avoid some splatter.
Brody sidles over. “That’s your Bog rat, isn’t it?”
“Fuck off.”
I need to walk away. If I go, Brody will follow.
Rosie hunches over again and hurls, the sour scent of sick rising from the grass. Nia tries to block Rosie from sight with her body, wrapping Rosie in her arms.
I can’t leave. The wolf won’t let me, and I don’t have the will to overrule him. Rosie’s not okay.
“Call the infirmary,” I tell Mr. Arnold, and he steps away to do it.
Brody moves to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with me. He crosses his beefy arms and smirks. “Did you put a pup in that bog rat’s belly, cousin?”
I note the words—I’ll spit them back when I pound his bones into pulp—but I don’t respond. He needs to go, and if I tell him to, I hand his father his ammunition on a silver platter.
“You better snatch that pup as soon as it falls out of that dirty cunt if you want any hope of getting the Bog stink off it.” Brody slides his piggy gaze at me, trying to gauge if his blow landed. He’ll see no evidence that it did. My face is blank as Rosie’s fear bursts through the bond, clawing at the insides of my chest, shredding tissue.
I will her to calm. I try to take the pain, draw it all into me, but there’s no end to it.
Leave.
I tug the bond, but it whips and writhes in my grip. Rosie wretches, but nothing seems to come out.