Filed To Story: Alpha's Regret: His Wrongful Rejection
This is the male I see around the village during the day, up on a roof with a hammer or loading up the back of a pickup truck. All business, economical movements, and easy efficiency.
First, he quickly unpacks and sorts my backpack. My clothes go in a neat stack, thick hoodie and jeans at the bottom, panties and bras on top. My cheeks don’t even warm. My reactions have been shorted out.
He takes my one pair of sweatpants and tugs them on, pulling the drawstring tight so they stay on his hips. They come to mid-calf on him, and they’re pale yellow. Somehow, with his tan skin, they look good.
The food goes in another pile, cans in a row, boxes stacked. Personal care products go in another—my little floral makeup bag, toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, a bar of soap wrapped in a blue handkerchief.
The rest goes in its own small pile. A box of kitchen matches. A small, rusty hatchet that was at the bottom of the trunk where I keep the Weedwacker. A brown envelope with pictures of my dam and our family before it fell apart. An old cookie tin with needle, thread, buttons, and the remnants from Miss Nola’s first aid kit—a few crumpled packages of alcohol wipes, a roll of tape, some gauze, a few bandages. There’s also a wad of human cash.
Alec flips through it, counting with nimble fingers, and then he sits back on his butt and frowns at the stash. His expression is bleak.
He picks up the matches and slides the box open. “Half full,” he mutters to himself.
I don’t care what he thinks.
I’ve spent my whole life being judged and found wanting and telling myself that I don’t care.
And caring all the same.
I’m done with that.
“It’s what I’ve got,” I snap. As a defense, it’s not much, but Alec stops glaring at my supplies and eyes me warily.
He takes a second, and then he says, “It’s a decent hatchet. A little vinegar or salt and lime will take that rust right off.”
I think he means it as an olive branch. We don’t have vinegar, salt, or lime.
I settle back and watch him repack the bag after setting aside the matches and hatchet. He’s careful with my envelope of pictures, tucking it between the tin and a box of corn flakes to keep it flat.
This is actually the longest interaction I’ve ever had with him. Certainly, it’s the longest conversation.
Hey. Show me your tits. I want to see you touch yourself. Yeah, that’s good. So good. Oh fuck, I’m coming. You go out first. Hold up. There’s something in your hair.
This is definitely the most I’ve ever said to him.
I’ve always paid attention to him whenever he was around, but he doesn’t say much. People talk to him, though. I’m not sure why. He’s not friendly. It’s probably because of his bloodline. If he becomes alpha, people want to be on his good side.
I don’t think he has one. He doesn’t seem to give a shit about anyone.
Except Isla Sinclair for those three months.
I turn from watching him and gaze up at the sky, letting the night breeze numb my drying cheeks. The stars have come out. There’s only a smattering of faint pinpricks, and the waxing moon is still huge, but it’s dimmed by clouds.
From the corner of my eye, I track him as he ventures out of the clearing and returns with an armful of brush. He leaves again and comes back with bigger sticks. For the next hour or so, he comes and goes.
He starts a fire. He takes the squirrel into the trees and comes back with meat on skewers and stains on my yellow sweatpants. He roasts the skewers over the flames, and even though I clench my abs as tight as I can, my stomach growls like my wolf is down there.
Every time it does, Alec’s frown deepens. At first, my hurt feelings flare. I can’t help it. He should just ignore it if it annoys him. He usually has no problem ignoring me.
But then it occurs to me—he’s not annoyed. He doesn’t like the reminder that I’m hungry.
I’m not sure how I know, but it has something to do with the thing in my chest. It’s more solid now that he’s here. Harder to ignore.
The squirrel doesn’t take long to cook. Alec hands me the first finished skewer. “It’s hot,” he says. “Blow on it.”
I don’t roll my eyes. I was raised too well to be rude about a packmate sharing a kill, even if it’s Alec. And a squirrel.
It must be a mate thing, wanting to keep your female fed. Just dumb biology like the rest of it. It doesn’t mean anything.
But it feels weird.
A male is making me food. He wants me to eat.
Not studiously avoiding the sight of me filling my face, as if it’s indecent, shameful that I should help myself to the pack’s limited resources when I’m clearly hoarding more than my fair share on my hips and thighs and belly.
Alec isn’t looking away. He’s watching me, fixated on my mouth as I nibble, ignoring his own skewer as it chars darker and darker.
There’s a bulge in his yellow sweatpants.
The squirrel tastes good, and it’s not just a “hunger is the best spice” kind of thing. He cooked it well.
“Shit.” Alec yanks his smoking skewer from the flame, hisses, drops it, and shakes his fingers. Now that kebob is more than a few shades past well done.
My lips twitch.
“I wouldn’t laugh,” he says, his own lips softening. “I was gonna share half with you.” His dark eyes are bright from the fire, his dark hair falling in his face.
My stomach does a strange flip that has nothing to do with hunger.
“I’m full,” I say, pitching my skewer into the fire. I’m not. Not even close. But I don’t ever ask for seconds. That’s asking for dirty looks and snide remarks.
He sits in silence for a while, stripping the charred exterior from his portion and chewing it industriously, grimacing.
I rearrange my quilt, folding it in half lengthwise so I can lie down. I’m tired to my bones. Still, I can’t get it quite right. I have to shake it out and redo it several times before it feels good enough.
I think I’m losing it. I need rest. I’ll start fresh tomorrow, make Alec understand that I’m not changing my mind. Right now, I just want to close my eyes.
I’m standing, glaring at my quilt—it’s off center somehow—when Alec comes up behind me. His scent hits me first, safe and familiar—deceptive, too, since he’s neither of those things.
He bumps my shoulder so I look at what he’s holding out. A skewer of unburnt squirrel meat. He’s left the good parts.
“Here,” he says.
“I’m good,” I say.
“I can hear your stomach,” he says. My hand flies to cover it. I thought it’d calmed down. A memory flashes into my brain of Agnes Campbell shoving her dish of devilled eggs in my face.
I push the skewer away. “I don’t want it.”
He sighs and works the meat off the stick. I try to ignore him and figure out what’s wrong with my sleeping arrangement. How many ways are there to fold a quilt?
He nudges my arm again, holding out half of the remaining meat. He’s got the other half in his mouth.
I take it. It’s easier than arguing. We stand next to each other, chewing, looking down at my dam’s patchwork quilt that she made out of her dam’s old housecoats and nightgowns.
“What’s wrong with it?” Alec asks after he swallows.
“Nothing. I can’t get it right.”
He nods as if I make sense. I know I don’t. There’s something going wrong with my brain. Exhaustion. Heat. Both.
I’m scared.
I hate it, but I feel better that he’s here. At least for tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll toughen up, and I won’t need anyone. I’ll hate him with all my heart again. But now, in the dark, out here so far from Salt Mountain territory—it’s okay that he’s rustling around, making himself at home.
He takes the knife from the sheath that I’ve unbuckled from my shin and goes to lie beside the fire. He props his head on the side of my backpack, stretching out his long legs. Somewhere, he picked up a long stick, and he occasionally pokes the embers for no other reason, I think, than to hear them pop.
I settle down on my back and resist the overwhelming urge to refold the quilt. Despite the rock-hard ground and the cold seeping up through the cotton, it feels good to finally lie down.
I figure we’re both going to fall asleep, or lie here in silence, but after a few minutes, Alec clears his throat.
“We’ll figure it all out tomorrow,” he says, his voice gruff.
I twist my head to look at him. He’s bent his knees, and his arms are crossed behind his head. Shadows from the fire play on his bunched biceps, the hollow of his armpit, the ridges that run from his shoulders along the sides of his pecs. I’ve never touched those muscles. I’ve clutched his forearms while he gripped my head as I deep throated him, but I have no idea how it feels to stroke those muscles.