Page 41 of Sold Bullied Mate

Soft and supple. Kira. My mate.

Anger rises in my throat at whoever thought it was a good idea to call this early—to risk waking her up—and I almost laugh when I see the caller ID.

Kellen Argent.

Of course. He’s the only person who would think to call me at such an ungodly hour—I glance at the clock to confirm it’s before four in the morning.

For some reason, the first thought that comes to mind is that, in a traditional sequence of events, I would need to ask Kellen for his permission to claim his daughter as my own. But I won’t be doing that—for one, she already bears my mark. And Kellen gave up his right to her when he let her leave all those years ago.

“What?” I snap, the moment I’m out of bed and in the hallway, having left Kira curled up in bed so she could get her rest, even if members of my idiotic council think it’s a good idea to call before the sun comes up.

“Sir?” the moment he speaks, I can hear it in his voice. There’s something very, very wrong. Kellen speaks with a beat of nervousness and excitement, urgency that I haven’t dealt with in a long time.

“What is it?” I ask again, this time softening my tone. I turn, slip back into the bedroom, grab a pair of black jeans and a black top, pull them on silently as Kellen talks in my ear. With every word he says, my concern grows, heart beating faster, the wolf inside me demanding immediate action.

My body is pleasantly worn from all the time I’ve spent with her this week. I haven’t been entirely celibate since she left, but it’s hard to find another woman halfway interesting when there’s only one thing your body wants.

And since puberty, my body has only wanted one body. One set of curves, one head of red-golden hair. Her skin under my hands.

So to go from nearly nothing to having her under me three times a day, for an entire week—it means I’ve been eatinglike an animal, and that my muscles are sore, stretching and worked more than they have been for the last five years.

Even now that her heat is finished, I feel my eyes wandering over to her, my eyes lingering on the spot I’ve left on her neck, healing now; the spot on her body that smells more like me.

Gently, I touch my hand to my own matching spot, just above my shoulder.

Soon, our scents will start to morph, leaning in and taking from one another, creating a new scent that our children will carry before developing scents of their own.

“Sir?” Kellen asks, his voice sharp and quick over the phone. I realize I haven’t answered him, that I’ve just been standing, staring at Kira as she sleeps, suddenly overcome with the idea of what our children might look like.

I want a thousand little heads, all with her hair. All with her bright smile. Children I can raise to be much better than I ever was. Maybe I’ll prepare one of them to take over for me in the future, the way my grandfather did. Or maybe I’ll find a new way to do things, to keep the peace in this pack.

But now, there’s something bigger, and much more important to focus on. A threat to all of us that I won’t ignore. Shaking my head, I clear my thoughts of Kira—I’ll have to focus on her when I get home.

If I think about her now, I won’t be able to perform my duties as alpha leader, keep the needs of the pack at the front of my mind.

Stepping out into the hallway, I hold the phone tightly to my mouth and say, “I’m on my way. Don’t do anything until I arrive.”

“Yes, sir.”

I get to the door, but before I slip out, braving the cool morning and driving to the pack hall to deal with this mess, I turn around, walk over to Kira, push her hair away from her face, and lean down, running my lips over her forehead.

“I’ll be back,” I mouth more than whisper, not wanting to wake her up. “And I love you, Kira.”

With a final, resolute kiss to her temple, I stand and force myself to leave the room, already looking forward to the second I walk back through the door.

Chapter 26 - Kira

This time, when I wake up alone in bed, I temper my emotions, tell myself not to react to it. Dorian is probably just downstairs, or in the garage, or making me breakfast, like last time.

I sit up slowly, stretch, go to the bathroom and take a long shower. The shower in his bathroom is heavenly, with a wide square head that rains the water down over you evenly. I stand under it for a long time, running through how the conversation would go with him today.

How should I address it? Open the dialogue?

Thinking about it makes my heart skip along, nervous. I try to tell myself not to be nervous—of course, Dorian wants this, too. Even if he hasn’t said anything. Why bring me here, why keep me here?

As I dress, pulling on a new sage green romper I’ve just finished, I list out the evidence in my head: the apology, the way he held me, bringing my sewing machine despite the danger, defending me to my family not once, but twice.

There are so many more.

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