Page 11 of Arranged Bullied Mate

This is Maddox’s favorite kind of fight—the one where words do as much damage as fists. But I’m not in the mood to let him take a chunk out of me today.

“We’ll do it by the book,” I say. “I want everyone to see it. Why wouldn’t I?”

Maddox holds his hands up in mock surrender, “No reason at all, she’s going to make a fine luna.” He smiles, but the gesture doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He moves a little closer, lowering his voice. "Speaking of which, thought I’d ask for your blessing before the pack gets too far ahead of itself. AboutEmily." The way he says her name, like he’s tasting it, puts every hair on my wolf’s back up.

I fix him with my best alpha stare. "What about her?"

He meets my gaze, no trace of a flinch. "We’ve been spending time together. I’d like to court her. Officially." The word lands with a challenge.

It takes me a second to process, even though it doesn’t come as a complete shock. I’ve seen that Maddox has been sniffing around Emily. I can’t decide if I want to laugh, punch him, or tear his throat out. Emily is still just a kid to me, but I know she’s not really a kid anymore. Still, the idea of Maddox anywhere near her makes every instinct in me recoil.

I swallow it, keep my face blank. "That’s not my decision. If Emily wants you, she can have you. But if you hurt her, I’ll put you in the ground."

Jacob makes a sound behind me, half laugh, half growl, but Maddox just grins. “Have no fear, Ronan. I would never hurt Emily, not after all your father did for me.”

I nod, but it’s more a dismissal than an agreement, and he knows it. He leaves the ring and jumps down, heading for a group of betas working out at the far end. When I turn around to look at Jacob, all I see is pure violence etched into his features, a look I suspect is echoing my own. Jacob feels my gaze on him and adjusts his expression to one of concern and disgust as he tracks Maddox’s movements.

And just like that, all the stress I’d worked out in the ring comes flooding back.

Chapter 8 - Ava

I spent the morning searching the house for an exit. Having spotted Ronan’s truck still in the driveway, I’d hoped he had left the keys behind when he went out earlier.

My overwhelming joy at finding a spare key in the kitchen drawer is only tempered by the fact that I can’t actually get out of the house. The doors are firmly locked, and the more I search for weaknesses, the more apparent it becomes that there are none.

It’s been nearly two weeks since I last saw Sophie, and the weight of living with the silent scream in my heart for her is almost too much. I stand by the front door and stare through the glass in defeat. I notice a truck parked across the street. I’m sure it was there earlier, too, but I can’t make out the dark figure in the driver’s seat. Tears prick at my eyes as I realize Ronan is probably having the house watched—even if I could escape, I wouldn’t get very far.

I’m so caught up in my despair, I barely register the first cramps. They’re low and trifling, but although I try to ignore the first wave, the second hits harder.

No. Not yet. Please.

I feel a tidal wave of need wash over me, and tears spring to my eyes. I slam my fist on the solid doorframe in frustration. The pain is nothing like I remember from my first heat. With no alpha around, it was a gradual ache, a low, persistent hum that could be managed with cold showers, avoiding everyone, and shame. This is different. It’s amplified, like every nerve in my body is being wrung out, my skin prickling with static, and every breath sticky and too sweet. The air itself seems to pulse around me, and the ache in my belly grows claws and sinks in deeper.

I stagger from the door, half crawling toward the stairs, desperate to reach my room before I collapse in the hallway and someone like Emily, or worse, Ronan, finds me there, panting and undone.

The stairwell is flooded with sunlight and the scent of him. I didn’t even consider how much worse being around an alpha would make my heat, especially in the early stages, but now it’s all-consuming. He’s in every fiber of the house. The musky spice of his aftershave, the tang of sweat, the sweet, earthy undercurrent, and the overwhelming scent of his wolf that is uniquely Ronan. I grip the banister so tightly my fingers cramp, fighting the instinct to just slide down to the floor and let the wave carry me.

When I finally reach the bedroom, I slam the door behind me, then press my forehead to the cool wood. My body is already betraying me, my thighs slick.

I need more time to get back to Sophie.

I stumble into the en suite and strip, barely managing to get the taps turned before I drop to my knees on the tile. The cold water rains down on me from the showerhead in a pitiless torrent, splattering my arms and shoulders. My skin is so fevered that the icy shock hits like a slap, but it’s nothing compared to the deeper ache inside. I force myself under the spray, shivering as goosebumps pebble every inch of my arms, my legs, even the soft underside of my breasts. I’m not sure how long I stay there, panting, fingers braced against the tile while the water needles my back, but eventually the chill becomes so sharp it almost brings me back into my body.

Almost.

My breasts are swollen, so sensitive that even the water hurts. I try to cup them for relief, but my hands feel smalland useless. The weight of them is obscene, and the nipples—oh Goddess, they’re so hard, it’s as if they’re being stabbed from the inside out. I grit my teeth against the pain, but it’s nothing compared to the low, molten pulse between my legs. Everything there is hot, slick, and desperate, and I realize with embarrassment that it’s running down my thighs, even just standing here.

For a moment, I find myself wondering if touching myself will give me relief so that I can refocus. But I shake my head, knowing that if I allow myself to give in to my omega needs, they will only grow, not recede. Besides, there’s nothing my fingers can do to ease this; I need an alpha’s cock. Ronan’s, specifically. Everyone knows that once an omega reaches full heat, only breeding can calm the torrent.

If there’s no alpha nearby, then the feeling is lessened, and it’s easier to cope. I’ve only had one proper heat before. Sophie was conceived before my mature heat cycle started—or, looking back, I think that was my very first. I just didn’t realize it at the time because Ronan was more than happy to fuck me for hours in the forest. I didn’t feel the pain or suffering of neglect.

I’m barely out of the shower when I hear the front door slam, the vibration running through the old bones of the house and straight down my spine. Ronan’s home. His apparent anger arrives before he does, twisting up with his scent in the air, sharp and resinous, and I know without a doubt that he must have picked up the change in my pheromones from out on the street. The thought paralyzes me with dread, then nausea, then something more complicated, a lurching hunger that makes my knees buckle until I’m crouched on the tiles, clutching my towel around me like it could muffle my own traitorous body.

I hear him moving below, his boots on the hardwood, a door opening and closing, the creak of the stairs as he takesthem two at a time. I want to scream at myself to run, but there’s nowhere to go. My wolf is already keening, desperate and humiliated, and when I try to stand, my legs tremble so violently I almost fall. I manage to stagger to the bed and collapse there, curling onto my side, towel still clutched to my breasts.

The footsteps stop outside my door. I can feel him, just inches of wood and air between us, his presence so massive it consumes me.

The door swings open, not with a crash but with a slow, deliberate force that seems to bend the light around him. Ronan stands in the frame, filling it completely. His eyes are pure wolf, and black with intent that is so extreme that for a moment, I’m not sure he even sees me as a person. His jaw flexes, teeth bared in a grimace. I can see, even through the white-hot haze of my own need, that he’s already hard, the outline of him straining obscene and monstrous against the fly of his jeans. He doesn’t move; he just lets his presence suffocate the room.