Page 60 of The Alpha's Fake Mate
Wilde nodded. “That’s true. But you said your mate was in an altered state. If he’s on medication, or mentally ill, or both, he might not feel the Burn at all. Or maybe once a year. It can vary.”
Holland looked horrified. “You said there were ways. Plural. Is there any other way to dissolve the bond?”
“Well, in old times there was the Challenge.”
“You’re kidding!” I couldn’t keep my mouth shut now. “I’ve only ever heard of that in history texts. That hasn’t been legal in hundreds of years.”
Wilde shrugged.
“What’s the Challenge?” Holland asked, still far too pale, his fists banging against his legs.
“Didn’t your history texts teach you this?” Wilde asked.
“He grew up on a chattel farm,” I said quickly.
“Ah yes, Zilly’s. Of course I knew that.” Wilde stared for a few seconds at Holland as if he were an insect. He said, “In the past, the Challenge was made with or without a bond. Two Alphas make a claim on the same Omega. Or an Alpha makes a claim on an already bonded Omega. The Alphas fight. To the death.”
“You state that as if it still goes on. It’s illegal. An Alpha killing another Alpha is murder,” I said.
Wilde nodded. “It is illegal in this country. But a few countries still practice it. Shrouded in rites and secrecy. Antiquity. Odd ritual. Religion. It’s not spoken of. It’s not recorded. You won’t find mention on the Internet except in historical texts.”
“Are those the only ways to break the bond?” Holland asked. His breath rushed past his lips.
Wilde turned from Holland to me. “That’s all I have. I’m sorry if the news is bad.”
“If? He told us he did not consent. It’s terrible news.” I opened the door, not waiting for Wilde to do it. “We’ll see our way out.”
“Orion,” Wilde called.
I did not turn.
“I wish I had better news,” he finished.
I didn’t reply.
Holland preceded me down the hall to the elevator.
On our way down to the parking garage, neither of us looked at the other.
My driver bowed to us and opened the doors to the limo.
As the doors closed behind us, and the car began to move, I started to speak. “Holland--”
“I don’t want to talk right now,” he interrupted. But while his voice had been full of sharp inflections to Wilde, he’d softened it somewhat with me.
I leaned back and endured the drive home.
The limo let us out at the front path that led to the porch. I got out first. Holland was behind me. A little too close.
He pushed past me, hand on my back, nearly knocking me aside and tripping over the bottom of the door.
The side yard was filled with bushes but there were spaces between them. He ran past them and onto the grassy slope that led toward the back. The estate went on for many more acres back there, a trimmed and well-manicured landscape of jacarandas and willows, pine and eucalyptus.
The field was still damp from rain, smelling of wet earth and leaves. He half slid as he ran, almost falling again, his shoes shining with moisture.
He rounded the far end of the house, headed for the pool area, just as I started to go after him.
My driver, wisely, turned away and did not interfere.
