Page 51 of Sold Bullied Mate

Then I catch his scent, and I relax slightly.

“Emin?” I ask, getting to the front door. His fist is raised to knock against the door again, and he lowers it when I swing the door open, his panicked, wide eyes swinging up to me.

“Damn, Dorian, you can’t answer your fucking phone?”

Normally, I wouldn’t allow someone—even Emin—to speak to me like this. But there’s something off about his face, something panicked there that I don’t understand.

Voice low so Kira can’t hear, I ask, “What’s going on?”

Emin seems to register that I don’t want this to be overheard, and he tips his head down, hands shaking at his side and forming fists as he says, “There’s been an attack on the northern border. We’ve already sent more out there, but—”

Once again, my body reacts first, turning and leading me into the house without second thought. I find Kira still sitting at the table, looking like she was trying to overhear the conversation between Emin and me, but couldn’t.

“Come on, I need to get you into the safe room,” I say, taking her by the shoulders and standing her up from her chair. Her body submits to me—of course it does—and she’s walking down the hallway with me, but there’s a sense of hesitancy in her demeanor.

I need to make sure she’s okay. I need to ensure she’s safe before I go to the front lines. Even with two of my best shifters here, I’m not going to leave her here, knowing Jerrod’s motivations.

“What are you—Dorian!” Kira swivels out of my grip and turns around in the hallway on her heel, facing me, her mouth in a tight line, her eyes narrowing. “What the fuck is going on? Tell me the truth right now!”

“I can’t,” I reach for her again, knowing my touch will soothe her, make it easier for me to persuade her, but she ducks out of my reach, likely for the same reason.

“Don’t touch me,” she warns, glaring. “What does Emin want? What was stolen? What’s going on? I’m tired of feeling insane! I just sit here all day and wonder—”

“We don’t have time to talk about this now,” I say, growling and grabbing her anyway. Normally, I’d rather die than violate her consent, but there’s no way in hell I’m putting her in harm’s way.

I need her in that safe room, then I need to go to the border. If even a single shifter dies on my watch, without me there to have their backs, I’ll never recover.

As always, I hear my Gramps’s voice in the back of my head: “Borders are the most important element. You always keep the security high, and you keep territory top of mind. We fought and died for the right to have our pack on this land. You let anyone encroach on it? Expect every other pack in a hundred-mile radius to follow suit. Pretty soon, you have no land, no pack. Does that make sense?”

Protecting the borders is the number one priority. If Gramps was here, he wouldn’t be concerned about Kira.Wouldn’t be wasting all this time dealing with her, trying to muscle her down the hallway without hurting her.

Trying to reason with her.

“Dorian—no—Dorian!”

This time, her outrage comes at the fact that I’ve lifted her clear off her feet, throwing her over my shoulder and carrying her down the hallway. Since we were teenagers, I knew I’d have no problem lifting her, carrying her, even with her being thicker than the other girls.

If you can’t lift your woman, it’s not her fault. It’s your problem for being weak.

I’m sure Kira would disagree with that right now, as she pounds on my back, demanding that I put her down, that I let her go. She levels every threat against me that she can think of, I’m sure, because after another thirty seconds she starts to sputter, clearly out of ideas.

“I’m sorry,” I say, after carrying her down the stairs and getting her into the basement.

The panic room is completely hidden from the outside, and I have to press on the panel in the wall, step down, and punch the code in with one hand while she writhes on me.

A second later, I’m stepping inside the panic room, feeling the cool, filtered air against my face. I have no idea how long this room has been here, maybe even before my Gramps, but I’ve never had to use it.

Until now.

She gasps when I stop, practically tossing her onto the mattress. It’s not glorious, but the panic room is hidden, secure, and has all the amenities—a mattress on the floor, a bathroom, a little kitchenette stocked with canned food and bottled water.

“Dorian—” I can tell the toss took the breath out of her, and she’s trying to get her bearings, trying to get up from the mattress. “Dorian,” she warns again, her voice cracking on the word, tears coming, but I’m backing up, punching in the code, closing the door.

Without the code, she won’t be able to get out.

“Don’t—” she says, running up to the door as it shuts, but it’s too late. It seals her in, and the last thing I see before turning away is the wounded, furious look on her face through the little window in the door.

Then, I step back and slide the panel in the wall shut, completely hiding her.

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