Page 7 of Brutal Alpha's Forced Mate

I only catch a glimpse of him before I lower my gaze, but it’s enough to set my pulse racing. He’s dressed better than anyone I’ve ever seen set foot in this house—dark, expensive-looking clothes tailored to fit broad shoulders and a strong frame. A wide-brimmed hat hides most of his face, but I catch the edge of a sharp jawline and the faintest shadow of a blond beard. There’s something about the way he carries himself—relaxed but alert, like he’s sizing up everyone in the room—that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

“Ah, here she is.” Malcolm’s voice pulls me back to reality, oily and full of false cheer. “Jaslyn, come here.”

I force myself to move, keeping my eyes fixed on the worn rug beneath my feet as I cross the room. Malcolm gestures for me to stand beside him. I obey without a word, though every instinct screams at me to run.

“This is one of my most capable witches,” Malcolm announces, his tone shifting into something I suppose he thinks sounds like pride. “Sharp, obedient, and quite powerful. She’s been in my service for years.”

Liar. The word rises unbidden in my mind, but I swallow it down. It doesn’t matter. No one here cares about the truth.

The man doesn’t respond right away. He leans back in his chair, crossing his legs at the ankle and tapping a gloved finger against his knee. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, smooth, and oddly familiar.

“How much?”

My breath catches, and I risk a glance at him through my lashes. There’s something about the way he’s sitting, the way his voice curls around the words, that tugs at a memory buried so deep, I almost can’t place it.

Malcolm chuckles, the sound grating on my nerves. “I’m afraid she’s not for sale. She’s far too valuable for that. But…” He pauses as his lips curl into a self-satisfied smile. “I thought you’d appreciate seeing what real quality looks like. Not every witch can handle the kind of control I’ve put on her.”

The man tilts his head, and I feel his gaze sweep over me. It’s not like Malcolm’s son’s. This is something else entirely—sharp, assessing, and just a little too intense.

“No price would sway you?” the man asks, and for a split second, something in his voice cracks the shell of familiarity wide open.

I know that voice. I know it.

I dare another glance, this time longer, and the moment our eyes meet—sapphire-blue beneath the shadow of his hat—my heart stops.

Gray.

Here. In this room. Sitting across from Malcolm as if the last ten years never happened. As if I haven’t been through hell and back because of him.

But it’s him. Those eyes, that same commanding presence, though there’s something more mature about him now. Harder. I force myself to look away before my expression gives me away, dropping my gaze back to the rug as if it’ll save me.

Malcolm’s laughter cuts through the air, thick with smugness. “Oh, I see you’ve taken an interest. She is quite something, isn’t she?”

Gray doesn’t respond, but the weight of his attention is suffocating. I can feel it, even with my head bowed. Malcolm, of course, doesn’t notice. He’s too busy preening, basking in the attention of someone he clearly thinks he can impress.

“She’s completely under my control,” Malcolm continues, leaning back in his chair with the kind of arrogance that makes my stomach churn. “A little unruly at first, but nothing a few lessons couldn’t fix. Isn’t that right, Jaslyn?”

I nod automatically, though the motion is stiff and robotic. Anything else would invite punishment.

Wiley snorts from his perch by the wall. “You’re giving her too much credit, Father. She’s only as good as the leash you keep her on.”

The room fills with uncomfortable chuckles, and my nails dig into my palms to keep from reacting. I’ve endured worse. I’ve endured him.

Gray’s voice breaks the tension when he asks, “Under your control, you say?”

Malcolm nods, beaming. “Absolutely. She wouldn’t dare harm me. Not with the binding spell in place. It’s remarkable what a little magic can do, isn’t it?”

I flinch at the word “binding,” though I don’t dare let anyone see. It’s true, of course. The spell is as much a shackle as the cuffs they lock me in when they feel particularly paranoid. My magic is theirs to dictate—how I use it, when I use it, and most importantly, how I don’t use it. Against them.

“Show him,” Malcolm orders me suddenly. “Give our guest a demonstration of what you can do.”

I freeze. My stomach churns violently as panic surges up my throat. Demonstrate? For Gray? My hands shake at my sides, and I clasp them together to hide it. The last time I “demonstrated” my magic for Gray, I lost everything—my home, my pack, and whatever shred of dignity I’d had left. And now Malcolm wants me to perform for the same man who put me out on the street and doesn’t even realize it.

“I—” The word comes out shaky, and I curse myself for it. “What do you want me to do?”

Malcolm waves a dismissive hand. “Something impressive. Don’t embarrass me.”

I nod again, swallowing hard as I step toward the center of the room. My magic stirs sluggishly under my skin, reluctant and unsteady. I try to focus, to push the memories away, but they crash over me all the same. The training grounds. The jeering faces. Gray’s cold, detached stare as he banished me.

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