Page 6 of Mated To The King's Gamma
“Gannon may tiptoe around you, may coddle you like you’ll shatter if he breathes too loud, but I won’t,” Liam says, his voice a low snarl. “I’m not your mate. I don’t care if you’re scared of me. Hell, you should be. Because if you pull that shit again—if you slam that door in my face after I told you not to…”
Liam exhales through his nose, steadying himself, though his hands still twitch at his sides. “If you try to close that door again, I swear on my last bottle of whiskey. I will drag you to my room and tie your ass to a chair so I can see you with my own two eyes.”
He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a sharp whisper. “I’m not fucking around, Abbie. You might be used to people backing down when you go quiet and sweet, but I’m not them. I’ll duct tape you to the wall if I have to.”
I swallow, his words sinking into the hollow pit of guilt still gnawing at me.
“Do I make myself clear?” he asks.
My throat goes dry. I hate that I’m shaking. I hate that he notices. And I hate more that he doesn’t even pretend to feel bad about it.
“Why would you even offer to babysit me if you clearly hate me?” I spit, my voice smaller than I want it to be.
Liam tilts his head like I just asked the dumbest question he’s ever heard. “Hate you?”
He scoffs, shaking his head, running a hand down his face like I’ve worn out his last ounce of patience.
“This is tough love, sunshine. The kind you need. I’m not Gannon—I’m not gonna stroke your hair and whisper sweet nothings when you’re acting like a brat. I don’t hate you, Abbie.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” I mutter, crossing my arms.
Liam glares, steps closer, then points at me. “If I hated you, I sure wouldn’t have helped Gannon kill the butcher for you. I wouldn’t be sitting in this damn hallway watching you fold towels and spiral in silence. I sure wouldn’t be standing here right now warning you not to shut the goddamn door.”
A lump forms in my throat at his words.
“I don’t care about your tears,” he says, voice lowering again. “I care about your safety. And I can’t ensure that with the door shut.”
“You make no sense,” I snap.
Liam barks a bitter laugh. “You know what really makes no sense? That you’re pushing away the one man who would lay down his life for you without blinking. Who’s already killed for you. Who stood against the king himself because he couldn’t bear to lose you.”
I freeze.
“Gannon loves you, Abbie,” Liam growls, eyes burning into mine. “And if he loves you—I love you. Because I’ve watched that man die inside more times than I can count. I’ve watched him try to rip his own heart out. I’ve watched him spiral, unravel, destroy himself from the inside out.”
His voice shakes, barely contained.
“And then you showed up,” he says quietly. “And for the first time in years, he came back to life. You breathed life into a man I thought we’d already buried. But lately, every time I see him, he’s dying again. One piece at a time. And it’s you killing him.”
I flinch. His words hit harder than I expect.
Liam’s breathing hard, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. “So, yeah. Door stays open. Because I promised Gannon, I’d keep you safe. And I intend to do just that.”
He turns and walks out, but not before throwing one last look over his shoulder.
“And next time you shut that door, Abbie—I will tie your ass to a chair. Don’t test me.”
He leaves the door wide open. And this time, I don’t move to close it. “Your love language sucks!” I call out to him.
“So does yours, or Gannon would be watching you and not me!” he laughs, and I roll my eyes.
I shake my head, moving back into the room and over to clean washing. I start folding it and hanging everything in the closet. When I am done, I move to Gannon’s dresser and open the top drawer, rearranging it to squeeze his clothes in the drawer.
My fingers brush at something that feels like leather. Lifting up the pile of shirts above it, I find what appears to be a diary. I grab it out, wondering why it is in here and not on his bookshelf. I sit it on the dresser’s edge and rearrange the drawer when I see the corner of what appears to be a picture sticking out.
After fixing the drawer, I feel something under the drawer’s lining. I move the velvet liner and find a manilla folder. I pull it out, set it with the diary, and close the drawer.
Grabbing the diary, I pull on the corner of the picture hanging out and find it is a picture of my mother. I blink at the picture, wondering where he got it from before opening the diary to see a photo of me. I stare at the picture, wondering when it was taken, and I glance at the book, wishing I could read it.
