Page 6 of Brutal Alpha's Forced Mate

I turn and storm back into the shop, slamming the door shut behind me. Malcolm looks up, startled, but his smirk returns quickly enough.

“How much do you want for her?” I growl, cutting him off before he can say a word.

Malcolm’s smile widens, and I see it for what it is—pure greed. “Everyone’s got a price, Alpha,” he says, leaning backagainst the counter. “But Jaslyn? She’s worth more than you can afford.”

The words ignite something in me, a fury so strong that it burns away the guilt and hesitation. I step closer, letting my wolf rise to the surface just enough to make my point. “You have no idea what I can afford. Name your price.”

Malcolm’s smile falters, but only for a moment. He straightens, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re the one who threw her out in the first place. She told me all about it, you Red Arrow mutt. Here I thought wolves were ingrained with some sense of loyalty. Now you’re here, what, to play the hero? Sorry, wolf, but it’s too late for that.”

My hands curl into fists, and it takes everything I have not to lunge at him. “She doesn’t belong here. And you’re not going to keep her.”

Malcolm laughs, a cold, mirthless sound that makes my skin crawl. “I paid good money for her, Alpha. Besides, she’s better off here working for me than with a flippant wolf who can’t make up his mind about her.”

The words are like a slap, but I don’t let them show on my face. “We’ll see about that.”

Malcolm doesn’t say anything as I turn and walk out of the shop, slamming the door behind me.

This isn’t over. Not by a long shot. If Malcolm thinks he can keep her, he’s wrong. Jaslyn may not know it yet, but she’s coming back to Red Arrow. Even if I have to burn this entire place to the ground to make it happen.

Chapter 2 - Jaslyn

There are two things I’ve learned about Malcolm’s son, Wiley, in my time here. One, he’s worse than his father. And two, the only thing he likes more than tormenting witches is finding new ways to remind us we belong to him.

So when the housekeeper corners me in the kitchen and says, “You’re wanted upstairs,” my stomach drops like a lead weight.

I’m halfway to the staircase before I muster the courage to ask, “Upstairs where?”

She gives me a look that says I should know better than to ask. “His room.”

Of course. Because the universe can’t resist twisting the knife.

The hallway stretches ahead of me like a death march, and every creak of the floorboards under my boots feels louder than the last. I hate going to his room. Hate the way he looks at me like I’m some kind of toy he’s deciding whether to play with or smash to pieces. Malcolm may treat me like a tool, but at least there’s an air of detachment to his cruelty. His son? He enjoys it.

I make it to the door and raise my fist to knock when a sharp voice cuts through the quiet. “Jaslyn, change of plans.”

I whirl around to find one of the maids standing at the top of the stairs, her cheeks flushed and her hair frizzing out of its tight bun. “Malcolm wants you in the parlor,” she says, trying to catch her breath. “Now.”

Relief washes over me so fast, I have to lock my knees to keep from collapsing. I don’t ask questions. Questions get you punished, and I’m not in the mood to tempt fate. Instead, I duckpast her and make my way down the stairs, letting out a shaky breath when I’m sure no one can hear it.

By the time I reach the parlor, whispers of gossip are already thick in the air. The other servants cluster by the door, their voices low and conspiratorial.

“Who do you think it is?”

“Some big shot. Rich, too, from the look of his clothes.”

“Malcolm’s practically drooling over him. You think he’s buying?”

“He wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t.”

The words make my stomach twist. Whoever this guest is, he’s important enough to make Malcolm sit up and pay attention, and that’s never a good thing. Wealthy visitors mean deals being made, and deals being made mean someone’s about to have their life sold out from under them.

I slip into the room quietly, keeping my head down and my shoulders hunched the way I’ve learned to. The less attention I draw, the better. But the second I step through the door, I can feel the change in the air. It’s heavier somehow, charged with something I recognize but can’t quite place. My magic stirs, faint and restless, like it senses something I don’t.

Malcolm is seated at the head of the room. His posture is unusually straight, and his hands are clasped together in what I’m sure he thinks is an air of authority. Beside him stands Wiley, and the smirk on his face is enough to make my skin crawl. The sight of him sets my nerves on edge all over again in a bitter reminder that I thought I was heading to his room just minutes ago. But his father must have intercepted him on his way, dragging him down here to play the dutiful heir.

It doesn’t make his presence any less unsettling. His gaze lingers on me, full of malice and barely hidden amusement, like he knows exactly how close I came to facing him alone.

But it’s the man sitting across from them that makes me pause.

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