Page 16 of Brutal Alpha's Forced Mate

I nod slowly, though the words sting more than I want to admit. “Clear.”

“Second,” she continues, ticking the points on her fingers, “I’m here to help with the demon problem. That’s it. As soon as they’re dealt with, I’m gone. No strings, no obligations. I will no longer be a slave to you or the pack or to Malcolm. I will be my own person. Agreed?”

Every instinct in me screams to argue, to fight for something more permanent, but I bite it back. Pushing her now will only make things worse. “Agreed,” I say.

She narrows her eyes like she’s waiting for me to slip up, to say something she can use as ammunition. When I don’t, she lets out a breath and crosses her arms again. “Good. Because I’m not here to play the role of perfect little mate. I’m here to do a job, and that’s all.”

The words are harsh, but I nod, anyway. “Understood.”

For a moment, neither of us speaks. The air between us is thick with tension, but there’s something else, too—an undercurrent of understanding, fragile and tentative. She may not trust me yet, but agreeing to her terms feels like the first step toward something better.

“I’ll be upfront with you from now on,” I promise. “About the pack, about what we need, about everything. No more surprises.”

“Good. Because I’m done being kept in the dark.”

I nod, and for the first time since this whole mess started, I feel like we’re on the same page. Or at least, in the same book.

Chapter 6 - Jaslyn

The scent hits me first—woodsy and sharp, clean in a way that feels intrusive yet comforting all at once. It clings to the sheets, the air, the furniture. Slowly, I realize why. I’m not in my room.

I sit up quickly, and the thick blankets slide down to pool in my lap. The bed beneath me is huge, far too large for one person and infinitely more comfortable than I’m used to. It takes my sleep-addled brain a second to catch up, but when it does, my stomach twists.

Gray’s room.

A quick glance around confirms it. The furniture is heavy and rustic, the floor scuffed in a way that only years of use can create. His boots are lined up perfectly near the door, and his scent is woven into every inch of the place.

I groan, threading my fingers through my hair as the events of the previous night flood back. The tension in the banquet hall, my magic flaring out of control, Gray leading me out before I could embarrass myself further. And then his insistence that I take the bed while he slept on the couch.

I glance toward the door, half-expecting him to barge in, but it’s quiet. Too quiet.

The knob rattles just as the thought crosses my mind, and the door creaks open.

“Morning,” Gray says, stepping inside with a steaming mug of coffee in hand. His blond hair is damp, and he’s wearing a worn t-shirt that clings in ways I’d rather not notice. He leans casually against the doorframe as if he owns the place—which, of course, he does.

“What are you doing here?” I demand, sharper than I intended.

He raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with my tone. “This is my room.”

I scowl, pulling the blanket tighter around me. “Then why am I in it?”

“You needed rest,” he says simply, setting the coffee on the nightstand. “The couch wasn’t an option for you.”

“And yet it was for you?”

“Obviously.”

His nonchalance grates on me, and I swing my legs over the side of the bed, grabbing my boots. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

“Thanks,” he replies dryly, but as I move to brush past him, he holds up a hand, stopping me in my tracks. “Wait a second.”

I pause halfway to the door, narrowing my eyes at him. “What now?”

Without a word, he steps over to the dresser, pulls open a drawer, and lifts out a neat stack of folded clothes. He holds them out to me, his expression unreadable.

“What’s this?” I ask, not reaching for them.

“Clothes,” he says plainly. “You can’t keep walking around in…” He gestures vaguely toward the shapeless, threadbare dress I’ve been stuck with since Malcolm decided witches shouldn’t look presentable. “That.”

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