Filed To Story: Alpha's Regret: His Wrongful Rejection
For a second, we’re silent, and then all three of us exhale a long sigh in unison. Mari drops her head back and closes her eyes. Kennedy slumps forward and slices herself another hunk of cheese.
I know exactly what they’re thinking. It’s been a long day already, and we’re not even halfway done. In a few minutes, we have to head down to the lodge to prep for dinner. Then we have to serve and clean up and prep for breakfast, all while ducking and weaving around the meathead males of the pack.
I’m so hot and sweaty. I feel like a wrung-out washcloth.
I slump forward, push my teacup forward with the tips of my fingers, and lay my cheek on the cool linoleum table.
“What’s wrong with you?” Kennedy asks.
“I think I have a fever.”
“Shifters don’t get fevers.” Mari reaches over to feel my forehead. Pups get fevers, but we grow out of it by the time we’re old enough for the Academy. I haven’t had one since before Killian became alpha and moved me in with Una and the others. “You’re really hot.”
Kennedy reaches over and feels my face for herself. “Gross. You’re all wet.”
I blow out my cheeks. “I know.”
I can’t see Mari and Kennedy exchange looks, but I hear them shift meaningfully in their chairs. Neither dares to say it for a minute, but finally, Kennedy takes the leap.
“Do you think you’re in heat?” she asks.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “I don’t know. How can you tell?”
There is a long pause before Mari ventures an answer. “Well, I guess you get really hot and turned on, and you recognize your mate. Do you know who he is?”
I moan. “If I knew who he was, I’d know that I was in heat.”
There should be a class on this at the Academy. I can solve for X, and I know that iambic pentameter has ten syllables made up of alternating stressed and unstressed syllables, and that each of these pairs is called a foot, and each foot is called an iamb, and the opposite of an iamb is a trochee, but my body is burning up, and I have no idea if it’s heat, and I don’t even write poems.
“Well, are you horny?” Mari asks.
I turn my head so my nose and lips are mashed against the cool tabletop. Your mother is supposed to tell you this stuff, and if she’s not around, then your grandmother or your aunts. My aunt lives in Salt Mountain, and even if we did talk, I’d never ask her about this in a million years.
I don’t think Una knows any more about heat than we do, and I’d feel weird asking her about it. She’s kind of like the nun from the movie with the singing children. And besides, if we talked about it, I’d let on that I’m terrified of the whole thing. My brokenness makes her sad, so I try to play it off like I can’t wait for a mate like Mari.
“Well, do other males smell bad to you? I’ve heard that when you find your mate, other males stink until you do the deed.” I can picture Mari’s turned-up nose from the tone of her voice.
“Do any males smell good
?” Quarry Pack males smell like unwashed gym socks. High-ranking Moon Lake males smell like too much human cologne, and the low-ranking ones smell like pipe tobacco and swamp water. Salt Mountain males smell like chewing tobacco and gasoline.
You know they do. Don’t pretend. Face facts. It’s heat. You need to run.
Kennedy snorts.
“Well, when we get to dinner, you can take a good whiff, and that’ll be your answer,” Mari says, her chair screeching as she shoves herself back from the table.
Suddenly, the idea of doing the usual—showering, changing, hurrying to the kitchens, rinsing, chopping, mixing, serving, sweeping, wiping down, mopping, all while trying to stay invisible as I trail fear stink all around the lodge—feels unbearable. Insurmountable. I sigh, and my breath fogs the tabletop.
“I can’t do it tonight,” I say quietly. I’m never one to complain or shirk. The voice would never let me. If I’m not useful, I’m expendable. Maybe even a liability.
“Then don’t,” Kennedy answers like it’s nothing. “We’ll cover for you.”
Don’t you dare. You don’t want them to think you’re slacking. What if they decide you don’t need to eat since you’re not working? What then?
The voice flashes an image of the lodge basement in my mind, frozen in time ten years ago when the old alpha was alive.
It’s enough. I hoist myself up.
I feel like wilted lettuce. Right now, I can’t summon up any worry about getting my food cut off. The thought of eating anything makes my stomach churn, and besides, my rational mind knows that sort of thing doesn’t happen anymore now that Killian is alpha. Most of the time, my rational mind wins out, but that doesn’t mean the voice shuts up.
And that doesn’t mean she doesn’t know exactly what button to push in my brain to keep me vigilant.
What if they decide you’re only worth one thing? Better go anyway. You don’t want to draw attention to yourself.
The only people who’d notice if I was missing are Mari, Kennedy, Una, and Old Noreen. I’m furniture in this pack, and that’s how I want it. It’s safer.
You’re never safe.
And you’re boring, I want to say, but the voice doesn’t care about what I think any more than my belly button or my left foot does. Argument is futile. Ignoring is the only thing I can do.
“Are you sure you’re cool to cover for me?” I ask my roomies.
Mari and Kennedy both nod. “Take a long bath and veg out,” Kennedy says. “You’ll feel better.”
“Everything’ll be fine,” Mari adds, and they both head to their respective rooms to get ready to leave.
Neither of them actually believes what they said. If this is heat, I won’t feel better until I let a strange male mount me, and then I’ll be stuck with him for the rest of my life.
Killian Kelley. Lochlan Byrne. Alfie Doyle. Brody Hughes. Vaughn Lewis. Art Floyd. Dangerous, cold, mean, cruel, violent, heartless—it won’t matter who or what he is. Fate decides, and that’s that. Females get on their hands and knees and beg for it. If you somehow manage to resist the urge, the male descends into rut and makes you.
My stomach roils. The tea sloshes.
I push up from the table and trudge down the hall like a zombie. I need a shower. Ice cold. Maybe I’m lucky, and I just caught some human flu. I’ve never heard of it happening, but that doesn’t mean it’s impossible.
Some of the tension seeps out of my shoulders after I pop the lock in the bathroom. It’s not strong enough to keep anyone out, but if someone forced the door while the shower is running, it’d be loud enough to give me warning. I slide the wicker hamper in front of the door for good measure, wedging it as best I can under the knob. Then I get the wooden broom out of the linen closet and lean it on the wall next to the tub so it’s within reach.
I know a male shifter can burst through a standard door like it’s nothing, and this broom would probably break if I hit him with it, but I need the ritual so I’m strong enough to ignore the voice and take my clothes off.
What are you doing? You can’t get naked. What if you have to run? You’ve got no shoes. Nothing between you and them. Nothing to stop them.
I undress quickly, hanging my skirt, shirt, bra, and panties over the towel rod so that I can slip them back on as soon as I dry myself. I am a very efficient bather. Even with turning the water off a couple times to listen for phantom noises, I can wash, shave, shampoo, and condition in five minutes flat. The key is using shaving cream as soap and buying a two-in-one for your hair.
I actually stay a little longer than usual under the spray and run the water ice cold. For several precious minutes, the relief is more powerful than the voice. After I turn the faucet off, I press my palm to my chest. My skin is still rosy and hot to the touch, and my breath is shallow.
It’s heat. Run before you’re trapped. Get the hell out of here.
And go where?
The voice is silent. It always is when I call it out. It doesn’t have answers, just fear and hysteria and prophecies of doom and disaster.
I wish I could carve it out of my brain. Skewer it with a hot poker. Kill it with fire. Give it what it wants.
What does it want?
I pat myself dry and pull my skirt and shirt back on. I can’t bear the thought of squeezing my tender breasts into an underwire bra, and my underwear is ruined. I shove them deep in the hamper, covering them with one of Kennedy’s oversized sweatshirts and Mari’s flouncy party dresses.
I splash my face with cold water and brush my teeth. Like always, I dribble on my shirt, but there’s no help for it. I’m not about to stand in the middle of a room in nothing but a towel.
I moisturize and comb out my wet hair. It’s brown, like my eyes. I’m a very ordinary-looking female. I have a long torso, and my arms and legs are kind of gangly, but other than that, I’m pretty unremarkable.
My left breast is a B cup, almost a C. My right breast is a C, almost a B. My butt is square. My hips exist. Barely. I have a few moles, but none that show when I’m dressed.
I tie my hair back into a tight ponytail and check the effect in the mirror. Bland. Commonplace. Garden variety.
Will my mate be disappointed? Will he want me to wear crop tops and short skirts like Haisley and Rowan and the other young, mated females?
Acid rises in my throat as my adrenaline spikes.
He can make you do whatever he wants.
Run and hide. Run and hide. Run and hide.
I force myself to move the hamper back where it belongs, unlock the door, and walk at a steady pace to the back of the cabin. I’m not going to run. I’m just going to look out the storm door and remind myself that I can leave at any time. I’m not trapped.