Page 44 of Brutal Alpha's Forced Mate

The demon struggles to regain its footing, and I realize with a sickening clarity that I don’t have the strength to finish it off.

“Get away from her!” Gray’s voice booms.

My heart leaps as he barrels into the clearing in wolf form. His massive frame crashes into the demon, sending it sprawling.

He doesn’t hesitate. With one powerful swipe of his claws, he tears into the demon’s throat, ripping through scales and sinew with brutal efficiency. The creature lets out a final,gurgling roar before collapsing, its body twitching as the life drains from it.

I sink to my knees as the adrenaline fades and the pain in my side throbs with a vengeance. Gray shifts back into his human form and is at my side in seconds, his hands steadying me as I sway.

“Jaslyn, you’re hurt,” he says.

“I’m fine,” I mutter, though the blood soaking through my shirt tells a different story.

“You’re not fine.” His tone leaves no room for argument as he scoops me into his arms.

“I can walk,” I protest weakly, but the truth is, I’m too drained to fight him.

From my new vantage point, I see Amber huddled a few feet away, her wide eyes fixed on the demon’s crumpled body. Tim crouches beside her, breathing hard and clutching his ribs as if his half-finished shift has taken a toll. Both of them look shaken but alive.

Amber glances up and asks, “Is it… is it really dead?”

“Yes,” Gray confirms. “Theo and the others will be here soon to get you back to the packhouse.”

Tim’s voice is gravelly, still caught somewhere between human and wolf. “What about her? She’s bleeding—”

“I’ve got her. Get yourself patched up, Tim, and make sure Amber’s safe.”

Tim nods reluctantly, and Amber murmurs a shaken “thank you” as she leans on him for support.

Gray’s attention shifts back to me, his gaze softening. “Let me take care of you,” he almost pleads. “Please.”

I don’t have the strength to argue, so I let my head rest against his chest. My body sags into his warmth as the forest around us blurs into the background.

***

Gray doesn’t leave my side once we’re back at the packhouse. His presence is a constant, steadying force, even as my world tilts and blurs at the edges. I barely register the warm press of his hand on my arm or the sound of his voice uttering reassurances as I’m carried through the hallways.

When he lays me down on a bed, the motion sends a fresh jolt of pain tearing through my side, dragging a sharp cry from my lips. My vision swims, and the room comes in and out of focus. I feel hands on me—steady, firm—but the sensation is distant, like it belongs to someone else.

“You’re going to be okay,” Gray tells me, as if his sheer force of will can make it true. “Just stay with me.”

I try to respond, but my tongue feels thick, and my head rolls to the side. Darkness creeps in, pulling me under.

When I surface again, the pain is sharper, more insistent. I blink, disoriented, as Gray’s face comes into view. He’s leaning over me with a damp cloth in one hand and a bottle of antiseptic in the other. The gash in my side burns as he works, and I can’t stop the whimper that escapes my throat.

“You’re lucky it didn’t go deeper,” he comments. “Next time, wait for backup.”

I try to summon some of my usual snark, to tell him that I didn’t exactly have a choice. But the concern etched into his face stops me cold. Instead, I manage a weak, “Noted.”

He finishes bandaging the wound with a gentleness that surprises me. His hands are steady even as blood stains his fingers. When he’s done, he presses a cool hand to my forehead, brushing my damp hair back with a touch so tender, it makes my chest ache.

The pain is endless, and every small movement feels like knives slicing through my ribs. I lose track of time, slipping in and out of consciousness as Gray’s presence becomes my only constant. When the worst of it hits, he’s there, holding my hand tightly in his own. His thumb brushes over my knuckles in a soothing rhythm, grounding me when I feel like I might drift away entirely.

“Breathe, Jaslyn,” he urges me. “Just breathe.”

At some point, I wake from a restless dream to find him still there. His hand is warm in mine, his head bowed as he rests against the edge of the bed. His hair is mussed, and the lines of tension on his face tell me he hasn’t slept.

“Gray…” My voice is barely more than a whisper, raw and cracked.

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