Filed to story: Alpha's Regret: His Wrongful Rejection
Because of my hurt pride. Fucking pride.
Shit. Did I shout or growl at her back then? Maybe, yes, maybe I did. Afterward. When she told me she didn’t really want me, and I was disgusted at myself and angry at her. What did I say?
Horrible things. I can’t remember my exact words, but I wanted to hurt her, and after I swore I wouldn’t.
I feel sick and wrong, the happiness I felt in her presence snuffed like a candle, replaced with gnawing guilt.
What have I done?
I hold her wolf in the air, so we’re eye to eye. Her little legs dangle and her tail swishes as she cocks her head, patiently waiting.
“Who hurt you?” I ask.
Her sweet face falls. She glances down and away.
“What happened? Were you attacked?” I try to keep my voice even. I wish it wasn’t so gruff and rusty.
Her wolf growls low in the back of her throat, and wriggles in my hands. She wants down. She won’t look me in the eye. My stomach sinks.
I set her gently on her paws, and she promptly turns her back on me and trots off down the creek bed trail.
That’s a yes. Something happened.
I trail after her, allowing her a lead, but not too much. My brain races, my body tensing for an attack although my nose tells me there aren’t any predators for miles.
How did I not piece it together before now? Annie was terrified from the moment she saw me, and her fear never ebbed, not even that last day by the river. Even during her heat, it flavored her sweat. Her slick.
Why didn’t I consider that she might have a reason to fear? Elis knows none of us would ever slice him open, but he won’t even play wrestle with the pups anymore. And I’m not so stupid to think that Elis is afraid of me
—I know he’s terrified because of what happened to him. So why did I never consider that Annie was afraid of more than me?
Oh, fuck. Did I abandon her to whoever hurt her?
My stomach cramps, bile creeping up my throat.
Did I leave her alone with whoever did this over and over again? All the hundreds of times I made the trip to Quarry Pack to stand at the edge of their territory just so I could scent her on the wind, I just left, never once considering that she might have call to be afraid?
I’m a fool. A careless bastard. How could I have gone so wrong?
I follow her slowly. The creatures who hunt in late evening are stirring, rustling in the undergrowth, but she doesn’t seek shelter by my side. She’s pretending I’m not here.
Because she thinks I’m a bad mate? Stupid and cruel?
My stomach churns.
Even out in the camps, we hear the stories from the lost packs. Sooner or later, the females we steal confide in each other, and the tales trickle down to the rest of us. Basements and abandoned trailers and storerooms. Cruel males who believe might makes right. Fireside in North Border. The Munroes and Blackburns in Salt Mountain. The ones they call “nobs” in Moon
Lake, including our adopted pack brother Alban Hughes who fled there when we drove him out.
Declan Kelly in Quarry Pack.
My mate was a pup when the elder Kelly died, but we’ve seen how the lost packs care for their young. Some they treat like kings, and others they chew up and throw out like melon rinds. Alban Hughes was one of those they threw away. Our pack did its best, but the days he’d spent crying for his dam on the river bank where she’d abandoned him did something to his soul that couldn’t be mended. When he left us for Moon Lake, it was a blessing.
Was Annie left to fend for herself too young? Like I was?
Every inch of my skin burns with shame. I can hardly bear it.
My wolf prowls inside me, seething and unsettled. I don’t know how to ease him or myself, but I can scent his aggression on my skin, and I don’t need to frighten my mate any more than I already have.
I need to get away for a minute. Run. Hunt.
Luckily, we’ve come to the hidey-hole I discovered years ago on a day I’d rather not recall now. Before it dried up, the creek carved a gully out under an old oak, exposing its roots and creating a shallow alcove. My mate sees it and immediately makes a beeline for it.
I hang back. I don’t want to leave her—at least, I want to reassure her that she’s safe here, and I’ll be back soon—but I’m shy of her now.
She knows how stupid and shortsighted I am.
Has known.
All these years, all the times I made the trek to Quarry Pack to stand at the boundary of their territory to brood and feel hard done by, and I never considered that something must have made her so fearful, but she’s known all along that I am the kind of male who would reject his frightened mate.
Can I bear to know what happened? How much more can I hate myself?
Until this moment, I was so cocksure, wasn’t I? Such a big male. So tough. So right.
“Stay here,” I tell her, the words heavy with command, and stalk off into the shrub brush. I ignore her soft, confused yip.
It doesn’t take long to catch the faint scent of squirrel leading north. At least this is something I can do without embarrassing myself. It takes longer to run down prey on two legs, but I’ve always had a steady hand with a rock, and the woods are teeming with hungry, scavenging critters at this time of year who aren’t quite as cautious as they’ll be later in the season when they’ve got some fat stores.
I hunt until my mind steadies, and by the time I’m done, I’ve got four bushy-tailed squirrels in hand. Careful to keep a firm grip on my wolf, I shift to fur and gobble down three of them. Unlike the lost packs, I have no problem eating raw meat while in my skin, but it’s quicker to chew with canines.
At first, my wolf fights me hard—he wants his mate—but I manage to distract him with squirrel and steal our skin back when he’s logy from the meal. His stomach has always been his greatest weakness.
I take my time returning. The area is still clear of predators, and I haven’t ventured far. If I tune in to the bond, I can tell my mate has stayed where I put her.
Because she’s too afraid to leave?
Of course. I’ve stolen her, and she slept a long time, so we’re miles away from territory she’d recognize. She’s stuck with me.
I whistle when I’m a few yards away from the hidey-hole so she knows I’m coming. She doesn’t come out to greet me. I don’t suppose she would.
I can’t see her until I get close to the alcove. When I do, my heart sinks.
She’s dug herself a hole between the roots and covered herself with dirt and leaves. All I can make out is her black nose and solemn, accusing brown eyes.
I crouch and reach out my hand. “What have you done? Mud bath?”
She narrows her eyes and yips. Or was that a snarl?
I sniff the air. “We’re alone except for prey. There’s nothing to fear. You can smell that, right?”
She snarls. There’s no doubt this time. She’s displeased. Or offended?
I raise my palms. “I wouldn’t want to make assumptions.”
She wriggles out of her little nook and shakes herself off, sending dirt flying. Then she strides forward until she’s almost stepping on my toes. She lifts her head and lets me have it, growling and howling and snapping until my ears ring.
She’s pissed—either that I left her alone or that I was gone so long or both—and she’s making sure I know it. I bite the insides of my cheeks and try to look contrite. She’s adorable mad. Even with twigs stuck in her coat.
Mad is so much better than scared.
But that’s why she’s mad, isn’t it? Because she was scared.
I’m an idiot. I crouch, but I guess I do it too abruptly because she jumps and skitters backward. “I’m sorry, sweetling. You were frightened, and I didn’t hurry back.”
She gives me a low, unplacated growl.
“I keep making mistakes, don’t I?”
Her growl lightens, ever so slightly.
“I brought dinner.” I hoist the last squirrel up by its tail.
Oh, that’s caught her interest. Her throat quiets as her stomach takes up the rumbling. I grin.