Page 19 of Sold Bullied Mate

Less than ten minutes later, I had the job cooking for him and his family.

You can’t say no to the alpha, and even though it didn’t pay much, it did pay more than the hotel. At that point, I was so used to the process of making a bad situation better that I just took it in stride, ignoring the way his gaze lingered on me, how he’d pop into the kitchen to watch me as I worked.

“That’s when what?” Dorian asks now, he looks in his eye, making me feel like he might know where this is going, just from the tone of my voice.

I force my hand to relax on the fork I’m holding. Nothing actually happened with Jarred—except for the way he hit me on that final day with the Grayhides—but the waiting, the constant dread of when he would come around, that was almost worse.

“That’s when I was invited to come and cook for the alpha leader of the pack,” I say, forcing a laugh to lighten the sound of my voice. Weakly, I gesture around the kitchen. “Looks like it’s what I do best.”

“Kira,” Dorian says, not laughing, his gaze finding my cheek. I realize the bruise is still there and raise my fingertips to it. It takes him a moment, and I realize he’s put his fork down and is gripping the edge of the table tightly. “Did the Grayhide alpha do that to you?”

Silence falls around us. I don’t see how it’s important—it’s not like Dorian can do anything about it. He’s not going to war with another pack because they abused an omega. That would require a lot of manpower and would never be sustainable.

Too much time passes. He’s asked me a question, and I can’t answer it. I don’t even want to talk about it, don’t want to remember that day. I close my eyes, waiting for Dorian to explode, to demand that I tell him.

Instead, he just lets out a weary sigh.

“Okay,” he says softly. “Alright. We don’t have to talk about it right now.”

My eyes fly open, meeting his, and I wonder if he can see the surprise on my face. He shifts in his seat again, clears his throat, and speaks.

“Kira, I want you to know that I’m sorry for what I did to you in high school.”

It feels like I float up out of my body. How many times over the years have I dreamed of this moment—Dorian apologizing for the bullying? The tormenting? The eventual phrase that led me to run away from the pack altogether?

Another long silence passes, and he speaks again. This is more than I’ve ever heard him talk at one time.

“I was a stupid kid, under the pressure of being the alpha—and I didn’t really understand what that meant back then. Thought it was all about power. But punching down isn’t a good look. It just means you’re afraid you can’t hold your own if you keep your gaze level.”

That last part sounds like something he might have heard from his grandpa. My chest twists again when I think about the incident, about Dorian’s howl of pain when he realized his grandpa was gone.

“I’m sorry too,” I say, realizing too late that tears are coming to my eyes. “I didn’t know what I was doing back then. And I was so, so convinced that I was right—”

“You havenothingto be sorry for,” Dorian grunts, shaking his head. “We were all just kids. The adults in that situation should have known better than to punish you for that mistake. And what I said…”

He shakes his head, glancing away from me, and I’m surprised when I realize the look on his face is shame. As it always does, that moment comes back to mind, as clear as the day it happened.

“You are not my mate, Kira. And if you ever say something so blatantly false again, I’ll kill you myself.”

Dorian pulls me from the memory before it can go further, his voice hard. “It was cruel and pointless. You didn’t deserve to be treated that way, Kira, and I’m sorry.”

I feel completely paralyzed, stuck in my seat.

For a long time, I oscillated on what I wanted from him. Sometimes, I wanted to hurt him, to push him away and make him feel as tortured as I did. Other times, I just wanted to end the yearning, the endless heat alone and in agony without him. I just wanted to hear him say that he wanted me as his mate, that he’d made a mistake.

That’s not what he’s saying now.

He’s not saying it wasn’t true, or that he wants me as his mate now. He’s just saying it was a cruel way to go about rejecting me, which is true.

Another, slighter rejection pangs in my chest.

“Thank you,” I finally manage to force out, but it’s too much with the way that he’s looking at me. Realizing my plate is empty, I stand, hurriedly taking it to the sink.

Sometimes, cleaning up is the time I enjoy the most after a meal. The chance to sit quietly with my thoughts, wash away messes, and reset the kitchen for the next day. It’s a chance to care for my things—my pans, utensils. Another pang of grief hits me at losing the heavy Dutch oven I thrifted.

I’m thinking about it, nestled in its cabinet at my house, when I feel Dorian approach me.

I turn back against the counter and look at him.

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