The Tyrant Alpha’s Rejected Mate (The Five Packs Book 1)

Ipick myself up.

It’s easier this time because if there’s pain, I can’t feel it. All my wolf and I know is rage.

That asshole.

That hypocritical, backwards bully.

Why did I expect any different? I’ve known Killian Kelly my entire life, and what exactly in his illustrious past convinced me that he’d be any better than this?

The lifetime spent beating the shit out of other shifters?

The throne on the dais where he lounges while females throw themselves at him and he barks orders at us lesser folk?

I’m a fool.

I knew what he was, and here I am with his jizz still dripping down my leg.

I grab a blanket from the nest and scrub, but now his scent is in my skin. It’s everywhere. The nest. The air.

What if he knocked me up? What have I done?

I can’t blame heat. It’s there, in the background, receded now, crowded out by fury and hurt. But even in the moment, I wasn’t lost to it. It hasn’t come on in its fullness yet, thank Fate.

Can I stop it?

I have to. I have to go see Abertha, but she’s gone on walkabout or a spirit quest or a spa retreat or whatever.

I pace the room. I have to do something. I can’t stay here and wait to lose my mind like in the blackberry patch. What would he do if I begged him now? Call me a slut?

That’s what he thinks, isn’t it? That I’m damaged goods? My jacked-up leg he can overlook, but my missing hymen’s the end of the damn world?

Well, screw him and his double standards. I’m not standing here and waiting for him to come back. I head for the door, bound and determined, but when I pass the bed, my steps slow.

No, this is wrong.

I can’t leave my nest.

Not here, in Killian’s house.

He doesn’t deserve my nest.

Asshole.

The rage crashes through me again, and I grab a sheet and start stripping the bed. I fill my arms, over and over, shoving as many blankets and quilts as I can into the hamper until it’s overflowing. I lay a comforter on the floor and pile pillows and clothes and towels into it. Then I tie the ends and drag it down the hall toward the kitchen.

Killian has his own washer and dryer in a mud room at the back of the house. I’ve got at least ten loads here, but I can get it started before I blow this pop stand.

I cram sheets into the washer, fill it up well past where I should. I hope it gets off-balanced. I hope I burn it out.

My nose itches. I swipe at my face with a fitted sheet, and it comes away damp. I’m crying.

I don’t want to be.

Killian Kelly isn’t worth it.

And you know what?

Screw doing his laundry. I’m gonna throw it all in the garbage.

I limp back to the bedroom. My bad leg is stiff, and I’m cold. I’m only wearing the gray T-shirt I pulled on after Killian ran like a scared pup. After I take what’s left of my nest out to the trash cans, I’m going home.

Killian probably won’t even care now that he’s filled me with his baby batter. He’s been outside all this time, talking to some male like nothing’s wrong. Oh, Fate. Was Haisley right?

It makes no sense, but that makes me madder than the rest of it.

I shove the linens down into his trash can as hard as I can. I don’t want to make too many trips.

That’s what I’m doing when I scent Killian in the doorway.

I turn, chin high, ready to tell him to go fuck himself again.

He takes a step forward. He looks at the bare mattress. He looks at me. He glances behind me, down the hall, toward the kitchen. The washing machine is filling up.

Something happens to his face.

It hardens at the same time pain floods his blue eyes.

I’ve seen this expression before. In videos of fights. When he takes a blow that would lay a lesser shifter out, but he keeps his feet.

His nostrils flare. He balls his fists.

I don’t move.

He comes for me.

My wolf yelps and ducks. I don’t move. I let all my hate and hurt and pain and disappointment stream through the bond. He might not care, but he’s gonna know what he’s done.

He puts his hands on my shoulders. I brace myself. Then he gently moves me to the side.

He bends over, fishes a fitted sheet out of the hamper, and sighs. Then he goes to the bed, corner to corner, slipping the elastic on, lifting the mattress to tuck the sides tight.

He comes back to the hamper and grabs a sheet. He squints at it, considers the bed, and then he balls it up and puts it on the right side near the headboard.

It belongs a little further down.

Then he comes for a wool blanket. He folds it and puts it in the middle where I had it.

He goes back to the hamper, over and over, and despite myself, my anger flows out through the bond like sand through an hourglass, and eventually, I run out.

I can’t help but watch. He leaves for a minute and comes back with the bundle that didn’t fit in the washing machine. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even look at me while he remakes my nest.

Everything is more or less in the correct general area, but it’s also all wrong. Like a painting by Picasso.

When he finally finishes, he sits on the edge, forearms braced on his thighs, and bows his head.

“I was wrong,” he says.

I wait for the next part.

Down the hall, the washing machine’s agitator begins swishing. I squeeze my crossed arms tighter to my chest. I can feel the bond now. There’s hurt and pain and frustration and fear. None of it mine.

“You had no right acting like that.”

“I know.” He meets my eyes.

He knows I can feel what he feels.

His grasp of the bond is so much stronger than mine, and it’s unfair. All of this is unfair. I want my anger back. I want him to be the bad guy who fucked up beyond redemption.

‘Cause then I don’t have to forgive him.

And I’ll never get my heart ripped out again.

“I’m not a thing. I’m not ruined ‘cause I’ve been used.” My voice wobbles.

“I know that.” The bond flares, ugly and jagged. I hope he gets mad. I want him to stand and flex. Spout off like I’ve seen him do with his males a hundred times. I want his wolf to snarl.

But he just sits there in my shabbily repaired nest, gazing steadily up at me, and I realize something so big, my arms fall to my sides, and I blink in wonder.

To him, I am perfect. The most important thing in the world.

I do have his heart in my hands.

We’re both not safe.

Or only as safe as the other will keep us.

Killian frowns, sitting taller, scanning the room. “Why are you scared?”

I could lie.

I could refuse to answer.

I could turn my back on this thing between us.

But although I’ve been weak before, I’ve never been a coward.

“You could hurt me again.”

He rises to his feet, and I can see him searching for words. I can feel it, along with the pain and the hope and the guilt and the soaring, swooping, bright thing I can’t name.

And then there’s a boom, and a scream echoes from the hill.

Killian bolts from the room, making a beeline for the front. His phone is at his ear. He’s barking orders as he throws open the door, and above us, just below the ridge, a huge fire lights up the night. It’s my cabin.

My girls.

I run, but Killian’s got me around the waist, hauling me toward him. I fight. The phone falls and cracks. He drags me back into the house.

“Let me go.”

“Stop.” He pins me to the wall, grabs my chin. Over his shoulder, I see flames lick into the black sky. There are shouts. More screams. Mari.

“We have to go.”

“Listen.” His voice is so deep with alpha command, it rumbles. “You have to stay here.”

“No.”

“Listen!” He tightens his grip. “If you go, I’ll be worried about keeping you safe. I won’t be able to do what I have to do. Protect the pack. You have to stay here. Please, Una.” He kisses my forehead, over and over. “Please.”

An alarm sounds from the commons. Declan Kelly’s voice rings out from the grave. Emergency. All females and pups report to the lodge. All males to stations.

“Una, please.” Killian’s eyes are wild. There’s a pop, then a bang, and then the roof crashes down in flames.

“Go!”

He shifts as he sprints, bounding down the steps and up the path, disappearing in the dark and the smoke. There are shouts and howls, but no more screams. I pace the porch, straining to see more. Ivo and Gael rush past with bunker gear. I force myself not to call out and delay them.

Mari, Annie, and Kennedy are fine. They have to be. Their wolves are strong and quick.

I squeeze the railing, my claws splintering the wood.

Killian will do whatever needs to be done.

I expect comfort, and fear slaps me in the face. I can’t stay here, no matter what I promised. I can’t let him go.

I make for the steps, but as I do, a familiar husky voice calls from behind the cabin. “Una! Come here.”

“Fallon.” I rush toward him. “Are you hurt?”

“Come quick.”

He sounds like there’s something very wrong. I round the back, and out of the smoke, three ATVs roar up. Fallon. Alfie. And Lochlan Byrne.