Filed to story: Alpha's Regret: His Wrongful Rejection
Shifters aren’t big readers, but those of us who are, trade. I think I’d read every book in camp at least a dozen times before Una got us phones, and I discovered ebooks.
He stares at me.
“I’m into music, too. Mostly mid-to-late-2000s indie rock and acoustic chill.” A slash appears between his eyebrows. “Oh, and I’m really into gardening and crafting, of course. And aesthetics.”
My gaze darts around the cramped room. There’s nothing on the walls. I think Darragh’s more of a function over form kind of guy.
For a second, he’s speechless. I count the creases as they appear on his brow—one, two, three. I smile encouragingly. His mouth spears down.
“No,” he says, suddenly gruff. “You can’t stay.” With no further ado, he strides toward me, and I skitter out of his way. He passes me without a glance, ducking through the opening, and gestures for me to follow him.
My whole face bursts into flame, down my neck, across my chest. The red shows through my white top.
I should not feel like the idiot here. He’s the one with bad manners. He’s the guy who lives in a hut with a sword and a whiskey bottle on the floor. Still, I do—like the biggest idiot who ever lived.
I blink, and he’s already a yard down the faint trail that Kennedy and I took to get here.
I stumble after him like a dumbass.
His pace is just slow enough that he doesn’t leave me behind, but too fast for me to come even with him without breaking into a jog. He winds around trees, his direction unerring, stamping down or snapping aside thorn bushes as he goes so that I can walk right over or past them.
He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even look back to make sure I’m still there.
That tiny little flicker of hope I’d felt fizzles out with a hiss. For a quarter mile or so, my insides have sunk too low for me to decide on anything to say. No, my hermit mate doesn’t want to read books with me or talk about the fact that Fate has stuck us together for the rest of our lives. He can’t even stand me for an hour.
My cheeks burn from the exertion of trotting behind a dude with a stride twice as long as mine while fighting a brewing mess of ugly emotions.
This is what happens. Every single hand Fate deals me is shitty.
I have this daydream—maybe it’s not a daydream because I play it out in my mind every night before I fall asleep, and other times, like when I’m smoking the bees at Abertha’s or prepping dinner or using up the hot water in the shower to get back at Kennedy for eating my snacks without permission.
In this dream, I have a cozy cabin that belongs to me, and by magic, it has a hundred rooms that I’ve decorated over the years—in my boho phase and my goblincore phase—and every room is different, but the light is always hazy and soft, and the sheer curtains always flutter in a gentle breeze.
Music plays, conjured from thin air, and as I walk through my rooms, my fingers graze exquisite blown-glass sculptures and polished wood bureaus with lion’s paws for feet and all the pretty things I’ve collected from Instagram and Pinterest.
Everything is beautiful, and everything is calm, and as I walk, a male falls in step beside me. Maybe he’s wearing a black fedora and a gray wool vest, or maybe he’s in a flowy, white dress shirt with a few buttons undone, suspenders hanging at his sides, but he’s beautiful and calm, too. He takes my hand, and we continue through our rooms, my belly swelling, and then a pup is walking with us, clutching my hand, and then there’s another, a baby, and I carry her in a sling, cradled to my breast.
The male smiles down at me, kind eyes twinkling, and I know that I’m not alone, I’ll never be alone again, and everything is fine—perfect—and it’s going to be perfect from here on out.
It’s the exact opposite of this march from hell.
The water I finished before we’d gone a mile must have only piqued my thirst, because now, I’m parched. The sun’s higher, and the day has turned unseasonably warm. My blouse is slipping and sliding across my sweaty skin as my thighs slap back and forth.
And I feel so fucking left behind.
I can’t help myself from speeding up, instinctively trying to catch up with Darragh, but he maintains a consistent twenty-foot lead at all times. Periodically, I notice what I’m doing, and I slow down out of stubbornness, and then so does he. He’s doing it on purpose. He doesn’t want to be anywhere near me.
His hotness makes it sting twice as bad. He moves as gracefully as a wolf, deftly navigating roots and gulches, balanced like he’s got a gyroscope inside himself.
He’s not all hustle and swagger like the males my age, but he doesn’t show any sign of the physical carefulness that our males tend to develop when they get older, either, after they’ve gone too many rounds in the ring.
Has he ever even fought on the circuit? Most Quarry Pack males do. They don’t let lone females watch, so I wouldn’t know. Not like that’s my scene anyway.
As I watch Darragh stride ahead with all the energy in the world, I trip along like I got my feet yesterday. I turn an ankle stumbling over loose rocks and accidentally step off the path he’s blazing, catching my skirt on a blackberry bush.
He doesn’t even look back over his shoulder when I stop to tug the tulle free, but he does stop in his tracks and stares blindly above the tree line at the shadow of Salt Mountain in the distance until I rip the fabric loose before continuing on.
What happened to sit, here’s an apple, here’s some water? That’s gone. If he could run away, I think he would.
Every inch of my visible skin is bright pink from heat and embarrassment and hurt, and as I drag myself onward, my disappointment and humiliation does a U-turn and burrows into my dumb, soft heart.
How come no one wants me?
How come I’m so expendable? How come—when it comes to me—mothers and fathers and mates are all like “screw the biological imperative, I got issues, fuck this chick.” What is so uncompelling about me
?
No. I’m not going to let that toxic bullshit stroll on into my brain and make itself at home. I’m a grown female—I’m not giving into those thoughts anymore.
How about—who even is this guy?
It’s not like I asked him for anything. I did the mature thing; I came to talk it out. I’m not exactly thrilled about him as a mate either, but I’m not being rude about it.
My boot catches on some undergrowth, and I hop a step, but I don’t let it throw me off. I plow ahead. He wants to get rid of me? Well, that’s fine. I can’t wait until I’m back at camp, either.
I’m going to have a shower, and then a long bubble bath, and then I’m going to toke up with Kennedy on the back porch and eat the Manchego that Una’s been hiding in the back of the crisper, but before any of that, I’m going to chug a gallon of ice-cold water and forget Darragh Ryan exists.
It won’t be hard.
Take away the tortured air of mystery and scary sword and cool trunk of books and awkward attempts to feed and water me, and what do you have? Not a personality. More like a mad wolf with a shack in the woods and a single pair of busted-ass blue jeans.
By the time we’re in sight of the commons, I’m on his heels. He can’t walk ahead unless he breaks into a jog, so he has to deal with me right behind him. His scent is thick; he’s worked up a sweat power walking to keep ahead of me. He still smells delicious though, and that just makes me crankier.
The bond isn’t weaving together anymore. It’s a single cord, anchored under my breastbone like it’s always been there. It’s completely real inside me, but if I follow it out, at some point, it becomes kind of vague. Like the Saturday when Una and I drove to Chapel Bell in the fog, and we couldn’t see a foot past the hood of the truck.
Maybe the bond is deformed. Maybe that’s why this isn’t going right.
We enter camp by the commissary, and I expect Darragh to head up toward the lone female cabin, but instead, he turns toward the cabins clustered around the commons. I’m so distracted by my sore feelings that I don’t fully comprehend that he’s leading me to the alpha’s cabin until we’re there.
Darragh leaves me on the path at the bottom of the steps while he bounds up to pound on Killian’s door.
Is he seriously going to bust me for breaking the rules? Like I’m a pup, not his mate?
Asshole.
I cross my arms and try to will my sweat to dry. Anxiety joins the rest of the weird stuff happening in my belly.
Killian throws open the door, shirtless in black sweats, a towel dangling around his thick neck. He and Darragh kind of size each other up in silence, and then Killian’s gaze moves over Darragh’s shoulder to take me in.
He lets out a short but displeased growl. Darragh squares himself so Killian has to lean to the side to keep scowling at me like I’m a bad wolf who took a dump on his carpet.
“If I may?” he says to Darragh, arching an eyebrow, and Darragh grudgingly steps to the side.
Killian pads out onto his porch and Darragh turns so that they’re standing next to each other, glaring down at me with disapproval, Darragh with his arms folded, Killian holding onto the ends of the towel hanging around his neck.
I feel small and gross and…abandoned.
My neck bends of its own accord. For some reason, Darragh’s wolf snarls at the show of submission. Challenged, Killian’s wolf snarls back louder, and for a moment, both males tense as they wrestle their wolves down.
My wolf curls herself into a tiny ball of fur in a far corner.
I’m on my own.
I squeeze my hands into balls and try really hard not to cry or breathe through my nose. I guess because he’s been working out, Killian reeks. Not like good clean sweat, though. Like stagnant pond scum.
“She walked out to my place,” Darragh says.
Killian’s chest rumbles with displeasure. “Alone?”
“Kennedy’s wolf led her there.”
Killian’s lips compress. “Did you kill him?” he asks like he’s asking about the weather.
My heart stutters. Would Darragh have really hurt Kennedy?