Page 17 of Brutal Alpha's Forced Mate

I glance at the clothes in his hands—a mix of well-worn jeans, t-shirts, and sweaters. “Where did you get these?”

“From the women in the pack. I asked around. Told them it was for someone who needed it. No one asked questions.”

I blink, caught off-guard. “You… what?”

“I figured you’d want something that actually fits,” he says, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “And something that doesn’t look like it’s one wash away from disintegrating.”

The knot in my chest tightens, and I hate that it feels like gratitude is threatening to surface. I glance at the clothes again, noting the care in how they’re folded, the variety of sizes. They’re not just hand-me-downs, they’re a gesture. A thoughtful one. And that only makes it worse.

“I don’t need charity,” I say.

“Would you quit saying that? It’s not charity, Jaslyn. It’s practicality,” he replies, stepping closer and placing the clothes on the edge of the bed. “You’ve got enough to deal with. At least wear something that doesn’t look like it’s been dragged through the mud.”

The softness in his voice catches me off-guard, and I look away quickly, focusing on the pile of fabric instead of the man standing far too close for comfort. “Fine,” I mutter, reaching for the clothes. “But don’t think this makes up for anything.”

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t argue. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

I clutch the clothes to my chest, avoiding his gaze as I turn toward the door. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get dressed without an audience.”

He steps back with a small nod. “I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready. Coffee’s on the nightstand.”

I wait until the door clicks shut behind him before letting out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Looking down at theclothes in my arms, I feel a flicker of something I can’t quite name. Something I’m not ready to acknowledge.

For now, I push it aside, focusing on the simple act of changing into something that doesn’t make me feel like a prisoner anymore.

***

Over the next week, life in the packhouse becomes… routine, which is a word I never thought I’d associate with my time here. The place is bigger than I remember, sprawling with endless hallways and hidden nooks that will take time to rediscover. I try to stay out of everyone’s way, but Gray makes that impossible.

He’s everywhere.

At first, I think it’s intentional—him hovering to make sure I don’t bolt in the middle of the night. But the longer it goes on, the clearer it becomes that this is just how he operates. He’s always moving, always checking in on someone or handling some issue. And somehow, he always manages to show up when I least expect it.

Like when I’m in the library, poring over an old book on wards, and he drops a plate of food next to me without a word. Or when I’m trying to carry an armful of supplies upstairs, and he wordlessly takes half of them.

It’s not just the little acts of kindness that irritate me. It’s the way he does them so naturally, like it’s no big deal. Like he hasn’t spent the last decade being the reason I learned to live without help.

But the worst part is how aware I am of him.

He moves through the packhouse with a quiet confidence that draws attention whether he wants it or not. During training sessions, he spars with the younger wolves. His movements are so precise and controlled, it’s almost hypnotizing. He never raises his voice, but his presence commands respect in a way that makes me grind my teeth.

And yet, I can’t stop watching him.

I tell myself it’s because I’m trying to figure him out. To understand what kind of alpha he’s become since I’ve been gone. But deep down, I know it’s more than that.

Like now.

We’re standing at the edge of the training field, watching the wolves run through drills. The sun is warm against my back, but I can’t focus on anything except Gray. He’s leaning against the fence beside me with his arms crossed and his attention fixed on the trainees.

“They’ve improved a lot over the last few days,” I comment, mostly to distract myself.

“They have,” he agrees.

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, studying the sharp line of his jaw and the way the sunlight catches in his hair. I hate that my gaze lingers, that I notice the faint sheen of sweat on his brow or the way his shirt stretches across his shoulders.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks suddenly.

I snap my attention back to the field, heat rushing to my cheeks. “Nothing.”

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