Page 9 of Sold Bullied Mate

She’s going back to the house she and Emin grew up in, to see her parents. Maybe she’s forgotten what it was like when she left, but I’m almost certain they are not going to welcome her with open arms.

Chapter 6 - Kira

I keep my head down as I walk along the familiar road, but even without looking, I know exactly what passes by on either side. The Grimmer family house, that large bush in the corner of their yard that we came to use as a marker for our street—brown and dry eleven months out of the year, but flowering intensely for the entire month of July, the fragrant scent of it settling over half the neighborhood, sweet, sticky, and alluring.

It’s dead right now, though. A moment later, I walk by the Barnett house. I was friends with another Omega girl growing up, but as I got older and started insisting I had a gift, they pulled away, parents offering up reasons why we couldn’t play together until finally, as a pre-teen, her mother looked me up and down and said, “Will you ever get the hint?”

My mind flashes with memories of all the other kids on this block, how each of them had their first shift. A few, at first, then an avalanche. And when the dust settled, I was left sitting there, alone and on the outside.

A streetlight flickers gently as I walk past. Down the road, a dog barks, then goes silent.

And then, all at once, it’s in front of me. The crack in the sidewalk, you’d have to maneuver around with your bike. The rock lawn, so we wouldn’t have to deal with the upkeep of grass. Aloe plants in the front yard, the faint smell of the lemon tree still holding on in the back.

Our house. My childhood home, a kind of modern adobe style, with large, rounded windows and a covered entrance area. Cool brown stone and dark wood accents, warm, golden lightspilling from the windows, so rich and palpable I feel like I could reach out and touch it, run my hand through it like water.

I’m on the front stoop, the strange feeling of being an outsider in my own home washing over me. To my left, a lizard skitters along the wall. Insects sing, and a gentle, fresh breeze pushes through, ruffling the edges of Dorian’s cloak, which I pull tighter around myself.

Maybe if I opened the door smelling like Dorian, it could help to sway them in my direction. But he smelled of nothing tonight—his scent so noticeably missing that it made me sick.

Nausea roils in my stomach as I stare at the blue door in front of me, smell the scent of garlic and onion leaking through the door. So Dad made spaghetti.

Shaking, I raise my hand and knock on the front door.

After everything that happened, I know they won’t be thrilled to see me. The incident, which I don’t want to think about in too much detail, gave them almost no choice. I was already a low-standing omega. When I left, it was likely a relief to them.

But I’m here now, and I’m still their daughter.

We still had good times—family game nights, birthday parties. My parents, while not perfect, love me. I know they do.

When the door opens, it lets the light and smells of cooking flood out onto the stoop, and I get caught in it for a moment, my focus drifting to the chipped tiles of the floor in the entryway, the same as ever.

If I was a cartoon, I might float on the current of light, warmth, and the smell of dinner right inside, folded into the life I once had.

But this isn’t a TV show, and my mother stands there, five years older, but looking mostly the same—her eyes wide, her lips parted slightly in surprise. Rather than take me all in, scan me up and down like she used to when I was a teenager, she just stares into my eyes, like she’s worried I might be a shapeshifter, some conman in the vague shape of her daughter.

“Kira?” she whispers, and in the next moment, she’s glancing over her shoulder, crossing her arms over her chest, and stepping out onto the stoop with me, forcing me to take a step back from the door, angling her body like I might try to slip past her, push my way inside.

Her long gray hair rests against her chest, which is covered in one of her vests. Right now, it’s a paisley pattern, the pinks and yellows swirling. Inappropriately cheerful compared to the look on her drawn face.

Things are complicated between us, but I can’t deny the deep, primal urge inside me. The little girl who just wants her mom.

“Mom, I—”

She glances up and down the street. “What are you doing here?”

The words sink like stones in my stomach. “There’s—well, I need a place to stay. There was a problem with my other pack—”

“You leftanotherpack?” she asks, dropping her voice so it’s practically inaudible. The disappointment there, coupled with a complete lack of surprise, makes me feel sick.

“Well, that’s not exactly what—”

“I’m sorry, love,” she whispers, taking another step and forcing me out of the illumination of the porch light. Herperfume—light, like white tea and rose—washes over me, hitting with a sense of homesickness so strong it makes me physically sway. When her eyes meet mine, they’re pitying, but not broken. “Can you lower your voice? I don’t want your father to hear. This will be very upsetting for him.”

For the briefest moment, I feel a flash of anger, strong and sure, and I want to scream at her,This is upsetting forme!I want to tell her that hours ago, I was standing on a stage in front of dozens of people, shivering in the cold, feeling lower than I ever have.

“I’m going to get back on my feet,” I insist, knowing I can’t stay here. “I just need somewhere to stay in the meantime, so I can—”

She’s already shaking her head. “Kira, I love you. You know that—but there’s nothing we can do. It’s out of our hands, and you know we can’t jeopardize your father’s place in this pack. He and Emin have been working night and day to improve our standing after … what happened.”

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