Page 38 of Sold Rejected Mate
Even though we ran in different circles, I knew who she was. From a decent, middle-of-the-pack family. I think her father works at the hospital, and her mother gives piano lessons. I even know which street she used to live on, which little blue Suburban belongs to her little family.
An only child, unlike me.
On the day that I really see her for the first time, she’s sitting alone at lunch, moving the food on her plate around. She’s small, a little skinny, with sleek black hair that falls just above her shoulders, almost like she took a pair of scissors to it herself.
There’s something dejected about her, something impossibly sad, and I almost follow my instinct to walk over toher and sit at her table, until I remember what it is that has her sitting alone.
Valerie Foley is one of the few kids in the entire school yet to have their first shift.
When we were younger, it wasn’t that big of a deal. And technically, according to what we know, she could still have her first shift as late as eighteen years old.
But not being able to shift now affects everything. She can’t hunt with her family. Can’t take any of the classes here that require shifting and teach you about your wolf. And many of her friends’ parents likely told them not to associate with her anymore.
My parents never told me that, but that’s because I was never friends with her to start with. Which means I don’t know anything about what it’s been like for her, hanging on to the hope that she’ll get her first shift before she becomes a legal adult.
I got mine at eight years old, which my father is still very proud of. It’s not common for shifters to find their wolf until after puberty starts, and many believe an early first shift to be a sign of great strength. That their wolf just couldn’t wait to be free.
My wolf urges me to go to her—for what reason, I have no idea—but my father always tells me it’s important to trust the animal’s instincts.
I know I can’t sit with her at lunch. So, instead, I mouth off during English class and earn myself a detention. Xeran gives me a look, and I shrug, leaning back in my chair. It’s not the first time I’m getting a detention, and it’s definitely far from the last.
When I see Valerie in detention, I know I’ll be back.
And I am. Over and over again, until she finally lets me in and talks to me. Until I’m picking her up in my father’s car for the first time and taking her out to Silverville, my heart racing under my stupid leather jacket.
All I want to do is touch her, slide my hand under her shirt, and the worst part is that she would let me. She looks at me like she wants to eat me alive, and it takes every ounce of restraint in my hormone-filled body not to take her up on that offer.
Instead, we park at the ridge overlooking the town, and we talk. Valerie seems confused at first, like she’s waiting for me to make a move on her, but then she relaxes, sinking down into her seat, even kicking off her shoes and putting her socked feet on the dash.
“You don’t mind?” she asks, glancing between me and her feet. “Really?”
It’s my father’s car, but even if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t care. It would be well worth it to see her legs, long and smooth, running from the bottom of her skirt to the dash.
That damn skirt, which I know she was wearing for a specific purpose. I can picture it—climbing into the back seat, situating her on top of me, keeping my hands on her hips.
But I won’t do it. And I don’t—not that night, and not any of the following nights. Instead, I pick her up, drive her out to the ridge, and we talk. Sometimes we stop for milkshakes, and sometimes I pick her up a bag of the hard candy she loves from the hardware store.
Then, one night, when I’m least expecting it, she pushes herself up over the center console and presses her lips against mine. It’s brief and chaste, but it sets my entire being on fire.
“Sorry,” she says, pulling back, her cheeks red, her lips parted. “I’m sorry, I—”
But I swallow the rest of her words with my mouth, driving forward, my hand on the back of her head, then the nape of her neck, sliding down to the collar of her shirt.
That first night, and for the following week, we make out with the center console firmly between us, keeping us from doing more than reaching for one another.
Then Valerie has the inspired idea to climb over the center console and into my lap, except this time she’s wearing pants, and it wouldn’t be quite so easy, so we just make out and grind against each other, the clothes enough to keep anything from happening.
And finally, on the night that everything goes wrong, I lean her seat back and prop myself up on the center console, unbuttoning her jeans and watching everything change on her face when I slip my hand inside.
Then, the panic. Leaving her there, turning around. Looking for her all night.
Waking up late for school the next morning, then hearing my parents screaming, shouting for me to get out of bed. Our electricity went out because of the fire, and we didn’t know anything was wrong until my dad finally woke up and checked his phone.
And then there were the rumors that Valerie was involved. A public trial for Phina and Maeve Villareal, in whichthey admitted as much. The final nail in the coffin for any public sympathies regarding magic in our pack.
Then the fire at the motel, drawing me in, leading me to her again. This time, she’s different, with green hair. A little filled out, her hips full, her body ten years older than what I remember.
Rie.
