Page 6 of The Alpha's Warlock
His arms loosened, barely enough that I didn't think I was about to implode. “I don't give a fuck if you hate me,” he said. “Just shut the fuck up, okay?”
“I don't hate you,” I muttered. Because I didn't. He hated me, not the other way around.
Ian snorted a laugh and started moving again, this time at something closer to a jog. If I'd tried to go that pace carrying a full-grown man, I'd have collapsed in seconds. Ian wasn't even breathing hard.
He did hate me, I knew that. Ever since I hooked up with Jared, I'd been persona non grata. Not that Ian and I had been friends before that, but when we ran into each other we were…cordial. Well, I was cordial. Ian would just stare at me. I was used to that, to be honest. My father hadn't cared how I dressed, or what I did with my hair, or even whom I fucked — he'd even tacitly approved of Jared, probably hoping he could use him somehow. Anyway, I went through some seriously stupid phases with my style. Ian probably remembered the purple buzz-cut, for one.Everyonestared at that.
But after the night Jared and I first had sex, Ian stopped talking to me. Stopped looking at me, either, even though I could always feel the prickling sensation of someone staring when I had my back to him. That was probably my imagination.
Or maybe not. Maybe he hated Jared being with a warlock so much that he tried to kill me with the force of his alpha glare, who knew.
The trees gave way to a clearing, and I had an unobstructed view of the sky. A little bit of blue was starting to peek through the clouds, but it was only a matter of time before it started raining again. This time, at least I'd be safely in bed getting hate-fucked instead of out in the woods dying.
Silver linings and all that.
Ian slowed down at last. I turned my head a little, and saw we'd reached a house. Well, house was generous — more like the sort of cabin where a van-load of teenagers would bet each other to stay the night during the opening scene of a horror movie. It wasn't dilapidated, exactly, but the sides were vivid green with moss and the porch sagged in the middle, like it had given up.
“More like shack of solitude,” I muttered.
A low vibration rumbled from Ian’s chest, a sub-audible growl. He crossed to the cabin with quick, angry strides, kicked the door open, and dumped me on a bed in the corner of the main room. I bounced a couple of times on the mattress and clung to the sheets under me with clawed hands, swallowing hard as I tried not to throw up.
The door slammed hard enough to rattle my teeth, and then Ian was standing over the bed, stripping his clothes in quick, jerky motions. His leather jacket hit the floor, his shirt went sailing over his shoulder, and then he was shoving his jeans down, somehow kicking off his boots as he went.
My mouth went dry. He was more impressive out of his clothes than in them, and that wasn't true of most men in my experience. Broad shoulders dusted with freckles, broad chest dusted with dark red curls, powerful thighs, and between his thighs — I swallowed hard. Fuck. Okay, the rumors about alphas weren't exaggerated. At all.
The jeans got tossed aside, and he stalked toward the bed.
“What the — Ian wait —” And then he was on me, tugging at my shirt and then just ripping it straight down the middle with an impatient growl. “Seriously,” I choked out, “just — fucking — wait!”
I managed to grab his forearms, squeezing as hard as I could. He stilled, staring down at me. I knew it wasn't because I'd overpowered him. I couldn't do that on a good day.
Ian's eyes were glowing, just a little, a trace of that golden werewolf magic bleeding through the blue. “I'm not going to rape you,” he said, very levelly. “But we need to fuck, and we need to get it over with. You're dying, Nate,” and the sound of my name, spoken almost kindly, nearly broke me.
He was crouched over me, his thighs bracketing my hips, his massive torso curved over me and filling my vision. This close, he smelled like the pines outside, with an undertone of something rich and strange. Werewolf magic, but not like Jared had. Deeper, and more enticing.
Knowing that under other circumstances I'd have wanted him, badly, nearly broke what little shards of me were left. I'd had a hell of a day and night, and for once, for fucking once, I longed for something I'd never had: the simple comfort of touch from someone who cared about me.
“I know we need to get it over with. I know. Just. Not like that, Ian. Please.” I could barely get the words out. I sounded pathetic, and I hated myself for it. Ian would hate me for it even more. I doubted he even knew the wordweakness. “I'm — please.”
For a second, one single second suspended like a tear about to fall, I thought I saw him soften. Just the faintest gleam in his eyes, the slightest part to his lips.
And then his lips tightened and his eyes went cold, and that was that. It was the Armitage pack enforcer gazing down at me, assessing and emotionless, not Ian. Not the man I'd caught glimpses of, when he interacted with someone he liked. Anyone who wasn't me.
“I won't hurt you.” There wasn't even a trace of inflection in his voice. “Let me get you undressed, turn over, and I'll make it as easy as I can.” And then, as I nodded shakily and let go of his arms, he muttered something that sounded like, “For both of us.”
Chapter 5
Mated
With my face pressed into Ian's pillow, I had to struggle for air. He pushed my thighs open, nudging so that my knees slid up the mattress and left me splayed open for him, completely exposed. I turned my head a little and gasped in a breath, squeezing my eyes shut.
Ian reached over me and rummaged in the sideways milk crate he apparently used as a nightstand, and I cracked my eyes open enough to see him pull out a bottle of lube. It was only half full. Maybe he had visitors to his shack of solitude once in a while, then.
The thought made my stomach twinge with…something unpleasant. How many of the Armitage pack had been on this bed, right where I was, ass up and ready for Ian to thrust inside? As the biker chick incident proved, he wasn't exactly picky — or at least, since according to Jared's account she'd been hot as hell, he might have been picky but he wasn't gay.
Actually, strike that. Was he even bi?
“Ian,” I whispered, and then let out a whimper as two slick fingers pressed between the cheeks of my ass.
