Filed To Story: Alpha's Regret: His Wrongful Rejection
People talk to me, I reply, and a second later, I don’t know what I’ve said. Seth steps in and takes over, and I sink behind my desk and stare at my laptop as my shoulders grow tighter and tighter. The button at my collar pops and flies onto the carpet.
I’m bulking up in anticipation of the rut, aggression surging in my veins. My colleagues are jumpy. The air is thick with musk. A Powell tries to crack a window, but they weren’t designed to open.
Rosie wasn’t afraid of me.
She was scared to approach my table, yeah, and she was intimidated, but she didn’t look at me in fear. There was fascination in her eyes.
In the library, too. And in the woods that very first night.
I want to rewind time and hit pause.
I want to watch her slender throat pulse as she swallows and her eyelashes sweep down as she lowers her gaze because it’s too much to hold mine. I want to watch the pink seep up her neck to her jaw and her cheeks.
I want to run it on a loop in my mind like an earworm.
Somehow, I make it until the end of the day. I leave at the stroke of six, aware that the others won’t go home to their families until I’m gone. Seth and I grab burgers from a cart on the pier. He ends up finishing mine and his. We watch the sun sink behind the mountains to the west of the lake, past the Bogs. My entourage clusters a few yards away, eating tacos, muttering amongst themselves in hushed voices. They scent my mood, and their wolves are uneasy.
I peer toward the Bogs, trying to make out the trailers and docks, but everything past the Narrows is shrouded in darkness.
“I can’t go to her.” I don’t know if I’m telling Seth, myself, or my pacing wolf.
Seth grunts. “Derwyn’s on her.”
“She must hate me.”
He doesn’t bother blowing smoke up my ass. He holds out his uneaten fries. I shake my head.
We walk to the High Rise. The streetlights flicker on.
Guards greet me in the foyer, and my entourage peels off to head down to the gym.
“You coming?” Seth asks.
I nod at a Roberts to call the elevator. “Not tonight.”
The Roberts escorts me to the penthouse. At least he keeps his trap shut.
My parents are in the dining room. They go quiet mid-conversation.
“Son? Have you eaten?” my mother calls.
I force myself to stop in the doorway and nod in respect. “I ate at the pier.”
“That garbage is terrible for you.” She scans me, checking for cracks. Father will have told her what I suspected—what I now know.
“I’m going to study before I turn in.” It’s one of our polite lies. Like when Mother says she has a migraine coming on, or Father says he accidentally fell asleep on the sofa in his study.
“Goodnight,” they say. I’m already down the hall.
I kick off my shoes and drop back on my mattress, reaching for the remote on my headboard shelf. I turn on the sound system, and my music fills the room. Synthesizer. A hi-hat. A breathy voice.
I wait for the knot in my guts to uncoil, the sensation of floating away, but I stay anchored in my body, tense, throbbing. Itchy. Agitated.
I toe off my socks and tug my shirt free from my waistband.
What is Rosie doing?
Is she thinking about me?
How long am I supposed to pretend that nothing’s happened?
I’ve got no answers, only pictures of Rosie shuffling on repeat in my head while my silent wolf stands in condemnation and my music does nothing for my rubbed-raw nerves. It’s not her voice in the air. Not her breath.
And I’m in the wrong bed, the wrong skin.
The wrong life.
I don’t undress. I don’t sleep. I listen to the faint hum wending from my chest out into the darkness where Rosie is—not where she’s supposed to be—digging my claws into the mattress, pinning my ramrod spine flat, holding myself back.
I do my duty.
* * *
The next day, I pull myself together. I dig my old earbuds out of my night table drawer and crank my music so loud my wolf finally cringes away from the boundary dividing us.
I shower, shave, and go to class. I don’t seek Rosie out with my eyes, and I don’t search for her scent.
After work, I join the others in the gym. I go straight to the ring, and my entourage groans. They were hoping for a leg day, I guess.
Seth rolls his shoulders and joins me. I don’t have to call him forward. That’s why he’s my second, even though he’s mid-rank.
“Ready?” I crack my neck.
“Born ready.” He smirks, slamming his fist into my jaw. Blood fills my mouth.
My lips curve for the first time since the Commons. It’s on.
We go two, three rounds, and either my blows are landing heavier, or his stamina’s flagging earlier than usual. Regardless, he’s not presenting enough of a challenge.
“Griff. Kenny. In the ring.” They duck through the ropes with less enthusiasm, but they do decently for a few rounds before their footwork slows.
The three of them start doing some kind of tag team shit. It’s too easy. I’m not even sweating, and they’re collapsing in the corner at the bell.
“Come on.” I wave Seth back to the center of the ring.
While Seth has my attention, Griff comes at me from my left. I block him. Kenny takes advantage of the opening, landing a blow to my ribs. There’s a crack. Instead of following through, Kenny dances back on the balls of his feet.
He always blows an advantage.
“Follow through.” I deliver an uppercut to his solar plexus to drive home the message. He folds in half and hacks.
“If you have the advantage, press it.” I demonstrate the idea with a knee to his nose. His wolf wails.
Seth and Griff shake themselves off and come at me from opposing directions. Griff lands a blow to my shoulder, but Seth gets my elbow in his eye. His wolf yelps.
Mine is silent. Always silent.
“Come on. Again.” I bounce, punching my gloves together. They’re tiring now. Getting sloppy.
“Hold up. Give us a minute, man.” Seth smacks the side of his head to amp himself up, tossing back his floppy hair. He needs a cut. He’s starting to look like a scavenger.
“Now.” I wave them on.
Kenny’s still bent over. “A break,” he wheezes. “Please.”
“You get a break when you’re dead,” I say. “Again.”
Kenny shakes his head, climbs down from the ring, and staggers to a bench.
Griff and Seth drag their asses back to the center of the mat. I adjust my stance. This summer, Killian Kelly had a field day exploiting the fact that I signal my moves by leading with my left foot. I overcorrected, and now I have to find the right balance again.
Seth spits a tooth on the mat. “Aren’t we due for dinner?”
“We can miss aperitifs. Come on. Gloves up. We have time.”