Page 65 of Broken Forced Mate
“That wasn’t your choice to make.”
He snorts and asks, “You think Oren would have welcomed me as a brother-in-law under any other circumstances than the ones we’re in? The son of traitors claiming his precious sister as a mate?”
I press my lips together as I realize he’s not entirely wrong. Oren’s protective instincts, combined with the politics of pack leadership, would have made our relationship incredibly difficult.
Still, he should’ve let me decide if I thought we would be worth it.
“So instead you decided to make the choice for me,” I continue. “Told me I was wrong about the mate bond, let me think there was something defective about my instincts.”
“I never said you were defective.”
“You didn’t have to. When someone tells you that what you feel most strongly isn’t real, it makes you question everything else.”
Wyn reaches across the table and covers my hand with his. “I’ve regretted it every single day for three years. Every morning, I wake up knowing I hurt the most important person in my world to protect her from a future she might not have wanted. That’s what I kept telling myself, anyway. But the truth is, I hurt you because I was a coward who convinced himself he was being noble.”
Tears start building in my eyes, but I blink them back.
“I missed you,” he continues. “Every single day you were gone. I kept track of your progress in school, your achievements, whether you were safe. Told myself it was enough to know you were happy.”
“I wasn’t happy,” I tell him. “I was surviving.”
“I know that now.”
“Do you? Because part of me has been waiting for three years for you to come after me. To show up and say you made a mistake, that you wanted to try again.” I turn my hand palm up so our fingers can intertwine. “Instead, you kidnapped me.”
“I did.”
“Why? Why that way instead of just asking?”
Wyn stares at our joined hands as he responds, “Because asking would have meant facing the possibility that you’d learned to live without me. That you might say no. And I hate myself for it.”
The confession settles between us like a bridge we’ve been afraid to cross. Not forgiveness, not yet, but understanding. A glimpse of the fears and shame that drove him to such drastic measures.
“The kidnapping was unforgivable,” I tell him. “But I think I’m beginning to understand why you did it.”
“Does that help?”
“Maybe. A little.” I squeeze his fingers. “It doesn’t fix everything, but it helps me see you as someone who made terrible choices out of fear rather than someone who never cared about my feelings.”
“I’ve always cared about your feelings. Too much, probably.”
When the plates are empty, Wyn starts to clear the table, but I catch his wrist.
“Leave them,” I suggest. “They’ll still be waiting for us in the morning.”
“You sure?”
Instead of answering, I lead him to the living room, where an old couch sits facing the unused fireplace. We take our seats beside each other, not quite touching but close enough to share warmth.
“What were you studying?” he asks, nodding toward the book I abandoned.
“Comparative government structures. Research for a paper I’ll probably never finish now that we’re at war.”
“What was your thesis?”
“That traditional pack hierarchies create more problems than they solve, but they persist because changing them requires admitting that generations of leaders were wrong about fundamental assumptions.”
“Sounds like something that would get you in trouble here.”
