Filed To Story: Alpha's Regret: His Wrongful Rejection
The lifetime spent beating the shit out of other shifters?
The throne on the dais where he lounges while females throw themselves at him and he barks orders at us lesser folk?
I’m a fool.
I knew what he was, and here I am with his jizz still dripping down my leg.
I grab a blanket from the nest and scrub, but now his scent is in my skin. It’s everywhere. The nest. The air.
What if he knocked me up? What have I done?
I can’t blame heat. It’s there, in the background, receded now, crowded out by fury and hurt. But even in the moment, I wasn’t lost to it. It hasn’t come on in its fullness yet, thank Fate.
Can I stop it?
I have to. I have to go see Abertha, but she’s gone on walkabout or a spirit quest or a spa retreat or whatever.
I pace the room. I have to do something. I can’t stay here and wait to lose my mind like in the blackberry patch. What would he do if I begged him now? Call me a slut?
That’s what he thinks, isn’t it? That I’m damaged goods? My jacked-up leg he can overlook, but my missing hymen’s the end of the damn world?
Well, screw him and his double standards. I’m not standing here and waiting for him to come back. I head for the door, bound and determined, but when I pass the bed, my steps slow.
No, this is wrong.
I can’t leave my nest.
Not here, in Killian’s house.
He doesn’t deserve my nest.
Asshole.
The rage crashes through me again, and I grab a sheet and start stripping the bed. I fill my arms, over and over, shoving as many blankets and quilts as I can into the hamper until it’s overflowing. I lay a comforter on the floor and pile pillows and clothes and towels into it. Then I tie the ends and drag it down the hall toward the kitchen.
Killian has his own washer and dryer in a mud room at the back of the house. I’ve got at least ten loads here, but I can get it started before I blow this pop stand.
I cram sheets into the washer, fill it up well past where I should. I hope it gets off-balanced. I hope I burn it out.
My nose itches. I swipe at my face with a fitted sheet, and it comes away damp. I’m crying.
I don’t want to be.
Killian Kelly isn’t worth it.
And you know what?
Screw doing his laundry. I’m gonna throw it all in the garbage.
I limp back to the bedroom. My bad leg is stiff, and I’m cold. I’m only wearing the gray T-shirt I pulled on after Killian ran like a scared pup. After I take what’s left of my nest out to the trash cans, I’m going home.
Killian probably won’t even care now that he’s filled me with his baby batter. He’s been outside all this time, talking to some male like nothing’s wrong. Oh, Fate. Was Haisley right?
It makes no sense, but that makes me madder than the rest of it.
I shove the linens down into his trash can as hard as I can. I don’t want to make too many trips.
That’s what I’m doing when I scent Killian in the doorway.
I turn, chin high, ready to tell him to go fuck himself again.
He takes a step forward. He looks at the bare mattress. He looks at me. He glances behind me, down the hall, toward the kitchen. The washing machine is filling up.
Something happens to his face.
It hardens at the same time pain floods his blue eyes.
I’ve seen this expression before. In videos of fights. When he takes a blow that would lay a lesser shifter out, but he keeps his feet.
His nostrils flare. He balls his fists.
I don’t move.
He comes for me.
My wolf yelps and ducks. I don’t move. I let all my hate and hurt and pain and disappointment stream through the bond. He might not care, but he’s gonna know what he’s done.
He puts his hands on my shoulders. I brace myself. Then he gently moves me to the side.
He bends over, fishes a fitted sheet out of the hamper, and sighs. Then he goes to the bed, corner to corner, slipping the elastic on, lifting the mattress to tuck the sides tight.
He comes back to the hamper and grabs a sheet. He squints at it, considers the bed, and then he balls it up and puts it on the right side near the headboard.
It belongs a little further down.
Then he comes for a wool blanket. He folds it and puts it in the middle where I had it.
He goes back to the hamper, over and over, and despite myself, my anger flows out through the bond like sand through an hourglass, and eventually, I run out.
I can’t help but watch. He leaves for a minute and comes back with the bundle that didn’t fit in the washing machine. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even look at me while he remakes my nest.
Everything is more or less in the correct general area, but it’s also all wrong. Like a painting by Picasso.
When he finally finishes, he sits on the edge, forearms braced on his thighs, and bows his head.
“I was wrong,” he says.
I wait for the next part.
Down the hall, the washing machine’s agitator begins swishing. I squeeze my crossed arms tighter to my chest. I can feel the bond now. There’s hurt and pain and frustration and fear. None of it mine.
“You had no right acting like that.”
“I know.” He meets my eyes.
He knows I can feel what he feels.
His grasp of the bond is so much stronger than mine, and it’s unfair. All of this is unfair. I want my anger back. I want him to be the bad guy who fucked up beyond redemption.
‘Cause then I don’t have to forgive him.
And I’ll never get my heart ripped out again.
“I’m not a thing. I’m not ruined ’cause I’ve been used.” My voice wobbles.
“I know that.” The bond flares, ugly and jagged. I hope he gets mad. I want him to stand and flex. Spout off like I’ve seen him do with his males a hundred times. I want his wolf to snarl.
But he just sits there in my shabbily repaired nest, gazing steadily up at me, and I realize something so big, my arms fall to my sides, and I blink in wonder.
To him, I am perfect. The most important thing in the world.
I do have his heart in my hands.
We’re both not safe.