Page 52 of Sold Bullied Mate

Emin is still waiting for me when I get back upstairs. I wonder if Kira is shouting down there—knowing her, she probably is—but we can’t hear her. That’s one of the features. No matter how much noise she makes, if anyone comes in here looking for her, I know they won’t find her.

“Okay,” I say, fighting through the emotions clogging the base of my throat. I feel like a monster, grabbing her and locking her up like that, but the only thing I can do is hope that, at some point in the future, she’s going to realize that I was doing this to protect her.

That I had no other choice.

“Come on,” Emin says, and together we step out the front door. I turn around and lock it, nod to the wolves still guarding my house, and shift with Emin as we run toward the boundary.

The Amanzite in my watch is warm to the touch, and I feel the magic coursing around my body, through my blood, making this transition easier for me. Bolstering me.

I’m worried about the fighting that’s taking place, and my people, my packmates. But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that, in the back of my mind, I’m thinking about the magic this is going to use up.

The Amanzite going to waste right now, and the fact that we just don’t have the stores to replenish it.

Chapter 32 - Kira

The scream that rips out of my throat when Dorian disappears is primal, angry, painful. It leaves me gasping for air, the stinging trailing all the way down my esophagus.

If I thought it was bad before, when I only felt trapped in this house, this is definitely worse. Much, much worse.

Dorian thinks he’s protecting me. I know that. But from where I stand, he doesn’t have the right to make this decision—he hasn’t earned the right to throw me over his shoulder and lock me away. No matter how big the threat is, no matter how much he’s worried about me.

I deserve to know what’s going on. And I’m not going to sit here and wait for him to come back, wallow, feel sorry for myself. I am going to find a way out of this stupid little cube.

Mind going a bit numb, I move to the sink, take down one of the glass cups from the shelf—which is surprisingly clean—rinse it out, then fill it with water. After drinking the whole thing, I put my hands on my hips and turn, surveying the room.

There’s a little grate in the corner of the room, and for a moment, I entertain the thought that I might be able to take it off, climb through it like a spy in an action movie.

But the grate is small, no bigger than the size of my fist, and when I try to dig my nails under it, I just end up hurting the tips of my fingers, sending a stinging pain down to my wrist. I have no tools, nothing I could use to pry it away. And I wouldn’t fit through it, anyway.

Pacing, I keep looking around, my hand going to my stomach absently as I do. I don’t know when you officially become a mother—does it count if you’ve only had apremonition that you might, someday, have a kid?—but I want to be the kind of mother who shows her kid not to take any shit.

If I have a baby inside me right now, I’m going to show them that they’re never trapped. That they can find a way out, a way through, a way forward. It’s what I’ve been doing my entire life.

I stop my pacing, my eyes resting on a keypad just inside the door. It matches the one on the outside, the one Dorian punched his fingers into before the door opened. I should have been paying better attention, should have thought to take note of the code.

Moving over to the keypad, I hover my fingers over it, then punch in the year Dorian was born.

The screen flashes red, and proudly tells me hat I only have two tries left before it locks out for biometric access, only.

I’m guessing that certainly doesn’t include me, and would mean I’d definitely have to wait for Dorian to get back before I could get out of here. Taking a deep breath, I look up to the ceiling, wracking my brain for anything that might make sense.

A four digit pin. What would they use?

I remember the year that Dorian’s grandfather became the Alpha from our pack history class and pause for just a moment, hesitating before punching in the numbers. It flashes red once more, and I shake my fingers out, bouncing around.

“Fuck,” I whisper, pushing my hands through my hair. I can figure this out—I know I can. If only I could get a premonition about this—

I stop, thinking about the keypad upstairs, the older one that Dorian wanted me to connect to. My eyes fall back to the one in front of me.

But I couldn’t do it. Wasn’t able to control my gift. Beth said that it would take a long time to train up to it, to be able to seek out information, rather than just having it come to me, like I’m used to.

This is my only choice.

Letting out a resolute breath, I step up to the pad, lightly rest my fingers on either side of it, close my eyes, and listen.

The rest of the world falls away. I feel my energy reaching out, fusing into the object, feeling what it feels, hearing the way that it exists. The soft humming of the electrical components, the soft zap years ago of a power drill mounting it to the wall.

Then, as though from nowhere, I hear a deep, raspy voice I’ve only heard a few times before. Despite not being familiar with it, I recognize it.

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