Page 8 of Betrayed Bullied Mate

“What the fuck is this?” I say, looking at Varun, who looks ridiculously pleased with himself. He’s picking at his nails as though he has nothing better to do than play stupid games with me.

“So, you’re not interested in money,” he says, shrugging, like offering a living, breathing person as payment for something is a sane thing to do. “But I knew you’d be interested in this. Little something to… Play with. Like you used to.”

I can already feel my team—except Bigby—brimming with questions about the dynamic at play here. Varun wasn’t in high school at the same time as Bigby and I. He’s a bit older, and it makes me wonder how he knows about my mean streak. Would Linnea have told him? My eyes dart to hers, searching. Is it possible she’s working with him?

No—it’s been years since I’ve seen her, but I know her. Linnea always protects the little guy. In high school, she went out of her way to be kind while I let out my anger on anyone in my way. There’s no way she’s changed so drastically that she’d be working with the slimy guy who killed my father, traffics drugs through the town, and abuses the girls in this bar.

Got it, Byron sends, suddenly, cutting through the current situation with intense clarity, and I remember what we’re here for. The actual mission. My eyes dart back to Linnea. We could just leave now and leave her here. We got what we came for.

I lean down on the table, getting my face close to Varun’s. He tries to exude confidence, but I can see his fear and smell it on him ever so slightly. His nose is slight and pointed, his entire face angular, his chin sharp but not strong. My hand itches to make a fist and punch him right there, to see how quickly his face would crumble under it, but I hold still.

“Keep your whore,” I say, my body revolting against me as I do. I don’t dare glance at Linnea, but I hear her gasp, and it cuts me to the core. I turn on my heel, and my team parts for me, turning to follow, but then there’s the unmistakable sound of a knife being pulled from a sheath, and I feel myself turning against my will.

The shifter has pulled out a knife and is raising it to Linnea’s neck. Rather than struggling or fighting back, she’s looking at me with wide, unafraid eyes. I remember the times I went after her in high school, hating her for what she did to me and getting that same look back.

I knew I was hurting her back then; I could smell and feel her hormones like all the rest of her, but she never let me see it—not until Prom night.

And now she’s got that brave face on again, facing her own death with a stoicism I wouldn’t expect from my best men.

“Stop,” I command, and the shifter immediately halts in what he’s doing, his knife pausing in the act. Varun glances between me and the shifter frantically, his voice rising in pitch.

“You don’t answer to him,” Varun growls, standing from his booth and coming around to the front. At full standing height, I have to admit that he’s not a small man, but he’s also clearly not as strong as I am. “You answer to me,” Varun continues. “And I told you to dispose of the whore. I have no use for her.”

The shifter looks torn but turns back to Linnea, raising his blade once again.

“Don’t fucking touch her,” I hear myself say, dismayed at how my body seems to be reacting without my consent. I shouldn’t care—certainly shouldn’t let this stunt compromise the mission—but it’s like my logical self is paralyzed.

Linnea’s eyes widen.

“You want her?” Varun sneers, raising his eyebrows. “Then you agree to the terms I presented earlier.”

“Fine,” I say, though I have absolutely no intention of honoring that. “Give her here.”

The shifter, with his hand on Linnea’s bicep, hesitates, and a low growl erupts from my throat. Bigby places a tentative hand on my arm, but I shake it off, unthinking. My brain only has one focus—the glinting metal of that shifter’s blade, still far too close to Linnea for my liking.

“You have to complete the marriage ritual,” Varun says, pleasure written all over his face. He steps lazily in Linnea’s direction, and my body jerks, urging me to take him out right here. “You have to understand I won’t let you take one of my virgins without completing the marriage ritual.”

It’s complete bullshit, a line from ancient pack rules. Varun is unmarried, and his scent is all over the women in this bar. But it doesn’t matter. I feel the proximity of that knife’s blade like it’s held against my own throat.

“Fine,” I say again, feeling the sharp sting of the shifter drawing the knife across Linnea’s palm. She cries out and tries to snatch it back and step away backward, but the shifter holds her tight, thrusting her in my direction.

I can feel my team hesitating behind me, confused about what’s going on, but trusting my judgment. I send out a mental push for them to hold but be ready for engagement.

In a swift motion, I slide a knife against my own palm, and then the front of Linnea’s body is pressed to mine. Our gazes connect as our hands come together, the blood between our palms mingling. She lets out a long, suffering breath, and it takes everything in me not to grab her and take her right here. The wolf inside me wants that, wants to be as close as possible, for everyone in this bar to know she’s mine and smell my scent on her.

“Congratulations,” Varun says, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Welcome to the pack, Brother. We can be in touch about how you’ll help me here.”

The violence waiting to break out inside me must telegraph to the team because Ado bursts into motion, snapping two necks before anyone even realizes what’s happening. A high-pitched scream from one of the girls rings through the space, and Bigby pushes her out of the way, intercepting a shifter headed straight for me.

In a second, Varun has disappeared, and I grab a shifter by the head, throwing him to the ground as he barrels toward me. Linnea is still in my arms, though struggling to break free from my hold.

“Hold still,” I growl, tightening my hold on her and deflecting another shifter. I never trained for a fighting position with a squirming woman under my arm.

“Over my dead body,” she says through gritted teeth, kicking at my shins now. “Let me go, Aris.”

But I know she doesn’t mean it. I can feel the way her body pulls toward mine, even as she fights against me.

Retreat, I send to the others. Disengage.

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