Filed To Story: Alpha's Regret: His Wrongful Rejection
The desire to leave takes over me again, and I search for Cadoc, willing him to finish this—whatever it is.
He’s looking past me, scanning the crowd, not like he’s searching for someone but like he’s taking account. Then his eyes meet mine. They’re swirly and silver, unreadable and full of possibility.
He holds out his hand.
And I’m afraid.
I don’t belong up in front with him. I’m Rosie Kemble, scavenger, orphan, not magical. I don’t belong here. I should be in the woods, in a den, by the river, in a meadow—anywhere but surrounded by buildings and pavement and manicured grass.
And it strikes me.
No, ‘strikes’ is the wrong word. It clicks.
We don’t belong here. Neither Cadoc nor I.
None of us.
I remember Abertha’s words, and I understand.
I am nothing special. I’m not strong and brave and brilliant like Cadoc. But I am what I am—I’m special to him. And I know what’s important.
I am the things my mate is not. I know the things he doesn’t know. He needs me.
And I’m not Rose Kemble, am I? I’m Rosie Collins.
I calmly take the steps, one by one, and he patiently waits for me, arm outstretched, his hard expression revealing nothing while the bond braids itself tighter and stronger, winding around the chambers of my heart.
The instant my foot hits the platform, Gwen Collins strides forward. Her glittering eyes are only for me.
“What are you doing?” she hisses at him, but she stares me down. Like I’m the threat.
My sluggish wolf takes it as her due. She doesn’t like this female trying to dominate our mate.
“Stop this now, Cadoc,” she spits. “Before you start something you cannot win.”
He ignores her, facing the crowd, readying himself for something, well past heeding any warnings. He is an alpha.
My alpha.
“Step back,” I tell her, cutting her off.
She draws herself up, and glares down her nose, “Who do you think you—” she starts, but her words drown in my wolf’s growl which rattles my ribcage and causes the microphone to squeal.
Behind her, the gathered high-ranking wolves flinch at the sound, shifting nervously. Gwen Collins doesn’t blink or budge. She grinds her teeth, the cords in her neck popping.
“Run now, bog bitch, and pray my idiot son follows you,” she says. “He’s about to get himself killed, and then your betters are going to tear you limb from limb.”
I don’t do it on purpose. It’s my wolf. She peels back my lips, bares my teeth, and lets forth a snarl so sharp it rings my ears.
And Gwen Collins shows me her neck like a ghost snapped it. She gasps, tensing, but she doesn’t—or can’t—raise her head.
“You’re wrong,” I tell her, and I don’t spare her another word. She’s as lost as the moon mad.
Cadoc holds out his hand, drawing me toward the podium, and I go stand at his side as he adjusts the microphone. He clears his throat.
A hush falls.
He stares at the people.
They stare back at him.
He shakes himself as if to clear his head, and his hand flies to his pocket. He digs out his notebook, flipping to a page crammed with his chicken scratch scrawl.
He coughs into his fist, leans close to the mic, and says, “Moon Lake, there is your alpha.” He glances quickly over his shoulder to where Brody still lies crumpled on the ground. “I abdicate any claim to his position. He is welcome to it.”
He pauses to draw in a breath. His voice resonates, the strength in it unmistakable, but through the bond, I can feel him live this moment—he is flying through the air without a net.
“People of the Bogs, I speak to you. You see here my mate is one of you.” Gasps and whispers and scandalized condemnation rise like a gust of wind. Cadoc waits for it to subside. “You see my mark on her neck.”
My face has been hot since we arrived at the lawn, but a new flush seeps from my chest to my ears. I can’t stop my trembling fingers from brushing his bite. The gesture stirs another wave of reaction. I drop my hand to my side.
“People of the Bogs, as I have claimed her, I claim you. As she is mine, you are mine to hold and protect.” He pauses, gaze steady, letting the word resonate. This time, the Bog murmurs and whispers, but the nobs are silent. “We will leave here now. We will go to the dens we once called home. I will see you fed and safe. We will be the pack that once was, and the pack that should be.”
Cadoc’s eyes flit to mine and back to the crowd. “I am your alpha, as I am her mate. I deserve neither, but I claim both.”
He nods once as if he’s said what he planned to say, and he tucks his notebook back in his pocket. It catches, and it takes a second for him to shove it in.
I realize I’ve never heard him speak in public before. He’s always been silent at Madog’s side. A figure head.
But in this moment, he is brave, and he is real. I’m terrified for him, and I am certain of him. When he holds out his hand, I take it, and I let him lead me down the stairs, knowing in that moment that I would follow him anywhere.
The crowd parts for us, and then, in twos and fours, and then in sixes and tens, scavengers file in behind us. Our steps are slow and measured. For once, my people are quiet. They move with dignity, heads high, backs straight. Males carry pups on their shoulders, the young give the old their arms.
The nobs fall out of their rows, clustering together, whispering, staring, their agitation growing. Because as we go, as we move as a pack away from the lake front towards the wilderness, the nobs cannot fail to see—there are more of us than them. They take up more space—always, in every way—but as we get further from them, it can’t be mistaken. If numbers are strength, they’re bleeding.
What are we doing?
I’m eighteen. Cadoc’s nineteen. I’m a witch’s apprentice with no magic at all. He has the strength, audacity, and presence of a born alpha, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know how to butcher a live kill, and I’m not a hundred percent sure he’s ever caught his dinner, either. Except those fish on his phone. And what did he do with them? He took pictures.
He needs me.
We’re doing this, no turning around now, so I’m going to have to teach him the million things he doesn’t know.
The thought should be terrifying, but somehow, it straightens my spine. Like Abertha said. I do know everything I need to know.
I know he can do this. With me.
Hope glimmers in my chest, and I urge it toward the bond, toward the stone-faced male beside me with his head high. We’re almost to the parking lot, almost to the overgrown field, when a terrible roar rings out.
“Cadoc Collins!” Alban Hughes’ voice ricochets off the buildings.
Cadoc turns. Our people part. Alban is coming for us across the lawn. He tears off his jacket, his tie, his dress shirt. Grim determination and love flow through the bond. A sense of finality.
“Your time has come, pup.” Spittle flies from Alban’s lips. He beats his fist against his broad, weathered chest. “No daddy to hide behind.” He cracks his neck, and the pretense of humanity falls away. His teeth lengthen to yellowed fangs, and sprouting fur tangles with his slicked back hair.
Cadoc pushes me into Seth’s arms. Seth shoves me behind him, Bevan and Nia crowding my sides, my entire family at my back.
My heart leaps into my throat.
I yank the bond, but Cadoc’s steps don’t falter as he strides to meet Alban halfway, peeling off his own shirt, single-minded in his focus.
He’ll win. He beat the feral in the forest. He took out Brody in one swing.
“Poor bastard can’t flip-shift, can he?” Uncle Dewey mutters to Seth.
Seth doesn’t acknowledge the question, but the answer is written on his face.
“What does that mean?” I hiss at Bevan. “What does it mean that Cadoc can’t flip-shift?”
Bevan’s eyes are sorry when he says, “It means when Seth says it’s time to run, we fucking run.”
Sweat breaks out on every inch of my skin.
Cadoc doesn’t look like a male walking to his death. His back is straight, his pace steady.