Filed To Story: Alpha's Regret: His Wrongful Rejection
I feel like I’ve changed into a whole new person, and here he is, like four years ago was yesterday.
My stomach feels strangely hollow. I draw back my shoulders.
He doesn’t seem like he’s going to say anything. His jaw is clenched tight. Instead of the usual package of venison wrapped in white butcher’s paper, he’s got a canvas sack. By the scent of it, it’s pheasant.
I raise an eyebrow and tilt my head, as if he’s any male, and this is a minor inconvenience. I feel like I’m hovering above the scene, in awe of my own composure.
Yeah, fuck Darragh Ryan. He is any male, the most minor of inconveniences.
“What?” I ask, and I intend the word to sound sharp, but it comes out frail. Bruised.
I straighten my spine and hike my chin.
Darragh’s brown eyes darken, the golden rings around the irises glowing brighter, and his chest rises and falls like he ran here and hasn’t quite caught his breath yet. He holds up the sack.
“Pheasant,” he says. His voice is a gruff, rusty creak that sets my nerves off like a shot. I ball my fingers into fists so they don’t even think about trembling.
I hate what his proximity does to me. Thank goodness my wolf is still drowsing off one of her fugues. I couldn’t deal with her reactions on top of this—trauma response. Yeah. That’s what it is.
I need to get out of here. The anger’s worn off, and I’m turning into a jittery mess of unresolved feelings, and the male who is supposed to be my mate is just staring at me, mute, holding a dead pheasant in a burlap sack.
“You couldn’t give it to Kennedy?” I ask.
His mouth spears down. “I wanted to say—you’ve got to look out for buckshot.”
“I know how to clean a bird.” Old Noreen won’t let us near the oven, but prep work, that’s all on us.
For a second, I think that’s all he has to say. He stands there frowning, taking up more space than it seems he should, smelling like the nicest things, fucking with my head.
I’m not going to take the sack from him. I’m not going an inch closer unless I have to. It took months for me to learn how to block out the bond and train my brain not to think about him, and I’m not undoing that work.
I firm my wobbly mouth and stare over his shoulder at the woods. I don’t think about how the last time we were here together, he led me down the trail to a guest cabin, and I thought I was on my way to a new life. I stomp the memory as it tries to form. Kill it before it can grow.
“Is there something else?” I ask, my gaze level with an oak two yards behind him.
Darragh coughs. “I, uh, I got it in the wing, but there was spray. So you’ll need to look out.”
“Fine.” I thrust out my hand. I changed my mind. He can come closer if it puts an end to this sooner.
He crosses the space between us in two long strides, but he doesn’t hand over the sack. “Maybe shred the meat. Or grind it.”
“Okay.” I stand there with my hand open, and he’s right there, so close I notice the button missing on his flannel and the frayed collar of the undershirt beneath it. The nick on his neck where he evened his beard. The way he’s holding himself so stiff and still, and how he’s so much bigger than me, than most of the males in the pack, and how that makes me feel small and intimidated and mad and confused.
How his wolf is totally silent in his chest.
“I don’t know why you needed to tell me. You could have told Kennedy,” I mutter, head bent, staring at the concrete patio because it’s too much, trying to read a face that gives nothing away, avoiding eyes that have seen me like no one else ever has.
For a moment, I think he won’t answer, that I’ll have to take the sack from him and turn my back on him and go back inside. Which I can do. I’m not scared of Darragh Ryan.
“I’ll have elk next week,” he says.
“I don’t need it. Just give it to Old Noreen.”
“If not elk, definitely venison.”
My waiting hand trembles. What is this? Why won’t he finish this, hand me the sack, and bail? I shouldn’t have come out. I should’ve hidden in the freezer until he left. I’ve done it before.
He hacks a sharp cough, and my gaze flies to his face. His brow’s furrowed.
“I don’t know how to talk to you,” he says, frustration gleaming in his hooded eyes. “I don’t—” He glares at the wall behind me, slashes of color darkening his cheekbones. “You know, I’m here.”
What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
“I don’t give a shit.” I reach out and snatch the sack from his hand.
For a second, we both stand frozen, glaring at each other, and I don’t know why he’s pissed at me, but I’m happy he is. I hope I’m ruining his whole damn day.
“Watch for buckshot,” he snaps like he’s cursing at me.
And then, with a disgruntled growl, he tacks on, “I’ll get you an elk,” turns, and strides off.
I stand there, furious and hurt and confused again, alone except for a dead pheasant, and for the hundredth time I start to wonder why, but I don’t let myself go one single step further down that road.
There is no why. Fate does what she wants, and it’s not making people happy. She throws spanners in the works. If I want a good life, it’s up to me. No looking back. No wondering why.
Darragh Ryan walks away. That’s what he does. I should be grateful. I could be chasing after a pup in a shack up in the foothills, squatting over a hole to pee.
I grab the sack and drag it into the kitchen all the way to where Kennedy’s sitting on an overturned bucket playing on her Switch. “Take care of this, will you? Apparently, it might have some buckshot left in it.”
I hustle away so she can’t foist it back on me, ignoring her “hey.” I go back to my workspace and grab another bunch of carrots. Annie’s set herself up next to me, cutting up parsnips.
“Who’s bringing you meat, anyway?” Lucan calls over. He’s done with the onions, and now he’s lining up beets in rows two deep. He selects the longest knife—which happens to be the bread knife—presumably to try to double the number of beets he can cut at once.
“None of your business.” I start chopping. The thwump, thwump begins to soothe my shattered nerves.
“If you don’t want whatever it is, I’ll take it off your hands.” Lucan sniffs the air. I can smell the pheasant, too, now that Darragh’s scent isn’t messing with my nose.
My wolf twitches her nose at the scent of fresh kill. It’s the first sign of life I’ve seen from her all day.
“It’s going in with the rest.”
“Why you always gotta be so stingy, Mari Fane?” Lucan smirks. He teases me all the time about being mean. He knows I’m not, I’m nice to a fault, and I fold under very little pressure. He’s not beyond exploiting those facts for food.
Overall, though, he’s harmless, especially since he got knocked down to kitchen help.
About a year ago, he was part of the coup that tried to barter Annie, Kennedy and me to the Last Pack in exchange for their help taking out Killian Kelly and installing Eamon Byrne as our alpha.
Killian relegated the conspirators to shit work until they proved themselves in a fight with one of his lieutenants. At this point, every male who sided with Byrne—and lived—has been able to win a reconciliation match and get his rank back. Except Lucan.
Part of me suspects he’s too comfortable on Z-roster, although he sucks at everything except cutting corners. I dread seeing what he did with the onions.
“You’ve got such a hard heart.” As sensitive to a female’s moods as most males, I see Lucan has decided to push it. “How come you can’t throw a dog a bone for once, eh?”
“How come you can’t work your way out of the kitchen, Lucan Hayes?” I toss back, rocking my chef’s knife back and forth, making short work of the last of the carrots. I shove the encounter with Darragh to the back of my mind where all that garbage goes and get back to my real life.
“Maybe I want to be your special meat delivery.” Lucan grins at me across the counter and cocks an eyebrow. Beside me, Annie lets out a soft, scandalized gasp.
“The vibe you’re supposed to be going for is sexually competent line cook.” I blow a curl off my sweaty forehead. It is hot in here.
That frisson of fear I can never quite shake sputters to life in my chest, but I dampen it immediately. I’m not going into heat. I just had an intense emotional encounter, which is not worth dwelling on, and Old Noreen has both ovens on, and no one’s bothered to open a window. I’m fine.
“Oh, I’m more than sexually competent,” Lucan throws back, leaning over the counter, bracing himself on his sharp elbows. “Sexually, I’m definitely above average.”
“Oh, yeah?” I scoop the carrots into a bowl and start scrubbing potatoes. It’s roasted root vegetable night.
“I’m at least in the fifty-first percentile.
Sexually.
” His grin widens, revealing his snaggle tooth.
“That is the most humble of brags I’ve ever heard.”
“I’m a modest dude. Think about it, Mari. You could be having reliably average sex. In a world of uncertainty, you shouldn’t dismiss that kind of offer out of hand.” He cocks his head.