Page 5 of Mating Mia
“Is that what they told you?” He shakes his head slowly.
My head spins with this new information, with the implications of what he’s saying. “And you? Who are you supposed to be?”
“Your father.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. I sit back on my heels, my mind reeling. This broken, chained man claims to be my father? It’s absurd, impossible. My father was never in the picture—that’s what my adoptive parents always told me.
He wasn’t interested in being a parent. He abandoned my mother before I was born.
“That’s... that’s not possible,” I stammer. “My father left before I was born. He didn’t want me.”
“Is that what you believe? That I didn’t want you?” He shakes his head, chains rattling with the movement. “Little pup, the only thing that’s kept me alive is the hope of finding you and your mother again.”
I press my hand against my mouth, trying to process what he’s saying. It can’t be true. It can’t.But why would he lie? What could he possibly gain by claiming to be my father?
And then there’s his scent.
Now that I’m paying attention to it, there’s something familiar about it, something that calls to some deep, primal part of me. It’s earthy and warm, like sun-baked soil after rain, with hints of pine and something metallic that might be blood. It makes me feel safe, in some way. Protected. Even though he’s clearly in no position to protect anyone, least of all himself.
“If you’re my father,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady, “then what’s your name? What’s my mother’s name? Where was I born?”
“My name is Liam,” he says, his gaze never leaving mine. “Your mother’s name is Sarah. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to witness the birth. We were under attack from Orion and his pack. They took me prisoner and killed Ezra and Theo, your two other fathers. I never found out what happened to Sarah.”
“This is insane,” I whisper, more to myself than to Liam. “How can this be happening? How can you be my father?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, just watches me with those pale green eyes.
“Blood recognizes blood,” he finally says. “Scent recognizes scent. You feel it, don’t you? Something familiar. Did your mother name you Mia?”
“Yes,” I say, feeling the connection. Despite the circumstances, even though we’re both prisoners, despite the impossibility of his story, something in me recognizes something in him.
“I don’t understand any of this,” I admit, my voice small and lost in the darkness between us. “If you’re my father... if everything you’re saying is true... how did you end up here? Why are you chained like this?”
Liam’s face twists with a pain that goes beyond the physical.
“That,” he says, “is a very long story. One I’m not sure we have time for right now.” He shifts, wincing as the movement pulls at his chained wrists.
“Careful,” I say. But suddenly a sound echoes down the hallway, footsteps, multiple sets, growing louder with each second and coming toward us.
“They’re coming,” Liam hisses, suddenly urgent. “Listen to me. Whatever happens, whatever they do to me, don’t react. Don’t show emotion. Don’t give them anything they can use against you.”
“What are they going to do?” I ask, fear making my voice thin.
“Whatever they think will make me talk. But I’ve endured twenty-three years of their hospitality. I can endure a little more,” he smiles with all teeth and without any warmth.
The footsteps are almost upon us now. I scramble back from the crack in the wall, my mind spinning with too many revelations, too many questions.
My father. This broken, chained man is my father. And whatever is about to happen, I have a terrible feeling it’s going to get much worse before it gets better.
The crash of the main door flies open, and three figures appear—two hulking men flanking a woman whose silhouette I recognize instantly. It’s her. The omega from the restaurant bathroom with the bitter coffee scent and sleek black hair. The one who smiled at me with those blood-red lips right before I was taken.
“Well, well,” she purrs, stopping directly in front of my cell. “Our guest of honor is finally awake. Did you enjoy your little nap, princess?”
I say nothing, keeping my back pressed against the wall. She’s dressed differently now—black pants and a fitted jacketthat emphasizes her slender waist, hair pulled back in a severe ponytail that highlights the sharp angles of her face.
Her dark eyes assess me coldly, lingering on my stomach where my hand still rests protectively.
“Don’t worry about the pup,” she says, noticing my gesture. “We have every intention of keeping it healthy because it will be mine.”
