Page 39 of Sold Bullied Mate

Another hour goes by, and when Beth is ready to leave, I wrap an extra loaf of banana bread for her, thanking her for her time. Dorian is gone—at a meeting—so I pass the time cleaning the kitchen and checking on my roast in the oven.

It looks delicious—tied up in the pan with onions and carrots beneath to act as a natural lift. I brush some butter over the top and close it, trying not to feel idle.

When I was working for Jarred, I always had something to do, but now there’s so much more time on my hands.

As I turn to the sink, washing out the pan from the banana bread, my mind wanders back to thoughts of Dorian, as it usually does.

The sex has been amazing—the result of a lifetime of wanting—but we haven’t talked in any concrete terms about what it meant for us, or what our plans might be going forward. He apologized for the things he said, but I always got the sense that it was more about the way he said them, rather than him rescinding the sentiment.

I get the feeling that he wants me here, would have me stay forever if he could.

But would I want to stay if he doesn’t accept me as his mate? If he doesn’t make it clear that we’ll be together, officially, letting everyone in the pack know about it?

No.

The realization is almost painful, but it’s true. As much as it would pain me to leave, that’s what I’ll do if Dorian doesn’t accept me as his mate. I’ve been hiding away in this house since I got here. At first because I knew nobody in the pack would accept me, and I would only feel worse being around them, and then for the week of my heat.

But I don’t want to hide. I want the pack to accept me. And that will only happen if Dorian walks back his rejection.

Makes me the luna.

It sends a shiver up my spine—to be the luna of a pack. Such a far cry of from where I started. And I can’t deny I might like the expression on my parents’ faces, to realize that I rose up much higher than any of them ever could.

When the door opens and I hear Dorian come in, I can’t stop myself—I move to the front hallway and throw my arms around his shoulders, drawing him in close.

The cool night air clings to his jacket, and when he wraps his arms around me, it makes a shiver run up my back.

“Kira,” he whispers, and I resist the urge to climb onto him. When he raises his head, and I see his cheeks are flushed, his hair mussed, I want to reach up and smooth it down. “What is that smell? I’m so hungry.”

We sit together, eating the roast, while Dorian makes little comments about how good it is, how much he loves my cooking. The whole thing feels sodomestic, like he and I have been cohabitating for years, rather than weeks. I feel natural sitting across from him, like he’s been my best friend my entire life.

That’s what the mating bond can do. It can wash over years of history, flood your system with dopamine and serotonin. Dorian is a natural stress reliever the moment I see him.

When I stand up to clean the kitchen after dinner, Dorian follows me and wraps his arms around my waist, kissing the side of my neck and breathing deeply, like he wants to inhale my scent into his blood stream.

“I don’t think so, Kira,” he murmurs, turning me in his arms. I giggle against him, leaning back when he starts to kiss at my exposed cleavage. “You cooked this dinner. Now, you’re going to go upstairs and get in the bath while I clean this up. Understood?”

“You think just because you’re the alpha leader you get to tell me what to do?” I ask, tilting my head.

“Last I recall,” he murmurs, his voice nearly dropping into a growl as his eyes darken. “You liked it when I told you what to do.”

A blush rises, spreading over my neck, and I whip him with the towel before turning, climbing the stairs, and following his instructions.

Last week, after my premonition, a package came to the doorstep from the little soap makery in town. Oils, salts, and bath bombs in every scent you might want—lavender, rose, chamomile.

Now, I drop some of them into the water and sink inside, letting my body relax against the tub. I can hear Dorian downstairs, even feel the slight vibration of his throat as he hums, washing up the dishes.

I like that he cleans. I like the way he holds me. I like that one of the first things he did was apologize to me for the way he treated me when we were kids.

This house calls to me, and I love being here. I love the kitchen, love of the view of the canyon you can see just from the back of the house. I love how natural and easy things feel with him.

But he still hasn’t made it clear what’s going on here. If he’s just having fun with me, or if he wants to make a life together.

I stand from the bath and wrap myself in one of the fluffy towels, then rub a cream from the same soapery into my skin, breathing in the calming citrus scent.

“You smell good,” Dorian says, appearing in the doorway to the bathroom. He’s clearly done his own round of grooming, his hair combed back his breath minty when I step into him, running my palms over his chest.

“Thank you,” I say, reaching back and tugging on the towel, letting it fall to the ground. His eyes roam my body, and he growls, reaching down and lifting me with ease.

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