Page 34 of Alpha's Revenge Luna

I’m awoken by the jerking of the truck as it comes to a halt. Dion climbs out of the car without so much as a backward glance at me. Rubbing my eyes, I yawn and stretch, my back aching from having fallen asleep across the seat and the belt buckle digging into my side.

Just as I am about to climb out of the car, Kyrio speaks, making me pause to look back at him. “Whatever you’ve done to upset him, I suggest you own up to it,” Kyrio states, then opens his door. I stare at the driver’s seat, wondering what he is talking about. I’ve been asleep this entire time?

Climbing out the truck, I can see everyone getting ready for dinner as they pack up the training equipment and start loading it back into the storage rooms. Wandering around to the back of the truck, I see Tara trotting toward us, a huge grin on her face as she notices Kyrio.

As they greet each, they seem like the best couple.

“Hey, Emery,” Tara smiles, moving to the back of the truck to help us start unloading everything. Only when she grabs a bag, Dion growls.

“Leave it, Emery can unpack the truck,” Dion orders and Tara looks at me. I shrug, not knowing what’s got him so upset.

“You want me to unload that all by myself?” I ask incredulously.

“Yes, now go get ready for dinner, you two. Emery will unload it,” Dion says, and I glare at him. Kyrio nods once, steering Tara away, who watches me with worry clearly etched on her face. Kyrio whispers something to her before pulling her away. Turning, I find Dion glaring at me.

“So where am I putting all this, then?” I ask, and he points toward the gym that is attached to the pack house, Kyrio has parked by the huge garage that stores the pack cars.

I peer up at the slight incline toward the pack house, knowing it may not look like much, but it was going to be a heck of a trek.

“Can’t you park the truck up there where it’s closer?” I ask him.

“I could, but I won’t. Now hurry before dinner starts,” he says, opening the tailgate and sitting on it. Storming toward the truck, I snatch the first box off the back of the truck when he grabs my arm.

“Everyone has a place here, Emery, you need to figure out where yours is. I would hate for it to be in my cells,” he growls before letting me go.

“Now get to work,” he says, pulling his phone from his pocket while I stomp off toward the gym.

My muscles ache as I lift another box from the truck and carry it into the gym’s storage room.

The space smells of old rubber and disinfectant.

My thoughts circle, buzzing like a swarm of bees, each one stinging with its own flavor of doubt and regret.

Does Dion know I made a call to my grandmother?

He couldn’t have known because I put the phone down the moment I saw him turn toward the shop. I know he didn’t catch me on it.

As I return to the truck, I’m relieved to find this was the last trip I would have to make back.

I can feel Dion’s eyes on me. His gaze is almost tangible, a physical weight I can’t shake off.

He’s been watching me silently ever since we got back, his scowl getting deeper with every step I take.

I can’t decipher what’s going on in that complicated head of his.

Hauling the last box up, Dion follows closely behind me silently.

The rogue women have managed to make themselves quite at home, and even have a bit of a system going on, making sure they are contributing to Dion’s pack.

I am yet to see any produce gardens, but by the number of fruit and vegetables laid out being washed and prepped I know there must be one here somewhere.

The gym’s storage room is nearly full, a maze of stacked boxes, equipment, and other miscellaneous items. Sweat trickles down my back as I place the box on a shelf.

I take a moment to catch my breath, but I can’t find peace, not with Dion’s silent scrutiny prickling the back of my neck.

He’s a storm cloud in Hybrid form, dark and foreboding.

The loud wail of the dinner siren cuts through the gym, reverberating off the walls. A collective sigh of relief echoes from everyone.

“Dinner, everyone!” one of the women announces.

“Where do you want all this?” one asks Dion, he glances at her.

“In the kitchens, make sure you keep enough down here, though, in case the children get hungry through the night,” he tells her.

“Thank you, Alpha,” she nods, wandering off and I notice most have lingered to help put all the fruit and vegetables into the baskets.

The dining hall is buzzing with chatter and the clinking of silverware as we step in. The scent of cooked meat and vegetables fills the air, but it does little to lift the heaviness that’s settled over me.

Tara smiles excitedly as I enter, and I grin goofily in return. However, just as I reach for the back of a chair to pull it out beside her, Dion’s voice slices through the noise. “Emery, sit here.”

I turn to find him patting his lap, a clear direction.

My teeth grind together, nerves tingling with humiliation and defiance.

I consider refusing, but the room has gone strangely quiet, and I can feel dozens of eyes on me.

Making a scene would only give Dion more of a reason to punish me, and God knows I’ve given him enough reasons already.

With a clenched jaw, I take a few steps toward him and reluctantly sit on his lap.

He wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me close as if to say, ‘You’re mine, don’t forget it.

’ I swallow down the retort that comes to my lips.

This isn’t the time or place for a confrontation, but that doesn’t mean I must like it.

A plate is set down in front of me, and Dion asks the person serving to bring him some vodka.

It’s the first time I’ve heard him ask for that; he usually drinks whiskey or rum.

I move to grab my fork and knife, only for them to disappear a second before my fingers can graze them.

Dion offers me a spoon, and my face flames with heat.

“Exactly how am I supposed to eat with a spoon?” I ask him, staring at the huge steak and roasted potato.

“Use your hands,” he growls, and Tara peeks over at me. She chews her lip, looking at my hand holding the spoon. I swallow down my humiliation like its bitter poison, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of making me beg.

So I scooped up the only thing I can, which is the peas, knowing I will only make a mess of myself and the table if I tried to eat the steak with my bare hands.

When the server returns with Dion’s bottle of vodka and his own dinner in his hands, Dion thanks him, removing the cap and pouring some in a glass.

Dion leans in, his breath warm against my ear. “Drink it,” he whispers, so softly I wonder if I imagined it.

I sit there, a puppet with its strings pulled taut, wondering if he knows about the phone call.

It’s the only thing that makes sense. Because he was fine earlier.

While I try to figure that out, Dion slides the glass in front of me.

I grab it with a scowl, giving it a hesitant sniff.

It smells vile, and I immediately set the glass down, only for Dion to grab my hand around the glass.

“Drink it. Unless you have something you want to own up to?” Dion questions, and I feel the gaze of the entire room on me. My eyes meet Tara’s across from me, and her brows furrow, I’m sure wondering what I’ve done.

“Own up to what?” I ask and his grip tightens and my fingers ache as I worry the glass will shatter in my hand.

“Drink then, we’ll see if you can hold your tongue, then,” he taunts. He lets my hand go and vodka sloshes out the side of the glass on my hand.

“This is stupid,” I mutter under my breath, lifting the glass to my lips.

The moment the taste of it touches my tongue, I nearly spit it back in the glass.

I cough, and I am about to spit it out when Dion grabs the glass.

My eyes water as I am forced to drink it or wear it, the vodka burning all the way down the back of my throat, my tongue, it feels like it’s on fire.

When the glass is empty, I cough, gripping the table as I try to catch my breath.

“Mind your own,” Dion orders, and everyone’s attention is diverted away from me.

My hands shake as I grab my spoon, wanting to rid the taste from my mouth.

Even a mouthful of peas won’t get rid of the taste.

Not that it matters because Dion pours another glass and I bite my tongue, which is surprisingly numb.

“Drink it,” he says, only this time it’s an order.

This time, when I drink it, it hardly has any taste.

I’m pretty sure he’s destroyed my taste buds.

I feel light-headed, heavy, my stomach churning.

Dion pours another glass and I shake my head.

When Kyrio reaches for my plate, he earns a growl from Dion when he starts cutting up my meat for me.

“You’re going to give her alcohol poisoning at this rate,” Kyrio snaps at him, and it is the first time I’ve seen him actually look genuinely angry at Dion.

Dion doesn’t say anything, just glares at him before pouring another glass.

By the fourth glass, half the bottle is gone, and it’s like drinking water.

My legs have lost all sensation. Eating the last of my steak, I lean back against Dion heavily. My entire body feels heavy, but I am lucid enough to know my surroundings, though they are starting to blur slightly.

“Drink the rest of the bottle,” Dion whispers, and I shake my head.

“Need I order you?” he asks.

“I feel funny, heavy,” I tell him, though my words are slightly slurred I am surprised I am still understandable.

“Dion!” Kyrio grinds out and my heavy gaze moves to him. “She’s had enough,” Kyrio tells him.

“She’s had enough when I say she has,” Dion tells him, reaching for the glass when Kyrio speaks again.

“Dion, you’re upsetting the women here, you want to feed her that crap, do so in your room, not here,” he tells Dion, and he pauses, my eyes float around the room noticing the women watching me with worry.

Tara stares at the table, having hardly touched her food.

Moving to the woman beside her, I notice she too has barely eaten anything and is too busy pushing her peas around her plate.

“Fuck!” Dion whispers behind me, his voice barely audible. “Tara, Ellie, I’m sorry.” Tara looks at him and I can’t decipher the look she is giving him.

“It’s not what you think,” Dion tells her, making me wonder what he’s talking about. “She still has free will,” Dion adds, confusing me.

“Emery, come on,” Tara says, moving to get up. She pushes her chair back and moves toward me. I stare up at her when she stops beside me. Dion’s arms tighten around my waist, but for only a second, when he loosens his arm but keeps it securely around me.

“You should know me better than that,” Dion murmurs to her.

“I do, that is why it is so hard to watch. If she has free will, then let her go. You’ve earned our respect, we know you.

But she doesn’t. She only knows what she’s heard and seen of you, yet you expect her to do whatever you want unquestionably?

” Tara says, and it seems the entire room is holding its breath to see what Dion will do. After a second, he lets me go.

“I’m not a monster,” Dion growls at her.

“Well, you are to your mate,” Tara snaps at him. Grabbing my arm, she hauls me to my feet. Only I haven’t moved off Dion’s lap for over an hour. The moment I stand, it’s like all the alcohol I’ve drank rushes to my feet.

I brace myself as I crash toward the floor, only for Dion’s arm to grab me before I face-plant on the floor. My stomach heaves, but I thankfully manage to hold my stomach.

“Crap, sorry, Emery,” Tara bursts, but I can only giggle as the bizarre feeling rushes through me. “I think free will to move is only granted to those who can feel their feet.” I snicker, and she snorts slightly but glances at Dion worriedly.

“See, it’s only alcohol, she’s just drunk,” Dion assures her, scooping my legs out from underneath.

“But if it makes you feel better, I will leave the bottle here,” he tells her. Tara sighs heavily and moves toward me, while I lay like a deadweight in Dion’s arms, fighting to keep my eyes open. She pats my face gently.

“You have freckles,” I tell her, and she laughs. “Ah, I want freckles,” I pout. Tara snickers.

“Okay, you’re right, she is just drunk. But no more. And you,” Tara, stares down at me. “Will have a wicked hangover tomorrow, but whatever you did? Own up to it, I actually like you; it would be nice if you got to stick around.”

“Are you done? Can I take my mate now?” Tara says something, but I am already drifting off into oblivion.