Page 90 of Locke

“Ahh, a bouquet of dicks. That sounds awesome.” She grinned wildly.

I rolled my tongue over my lips and bit at her neck. “Just so fucking perfect.”

“Continue your story, Alpha. I want to know it all.” She laid her head on my shoulder while I drew circles on her leg.

“Yeah, well, I guess she didn’t like me teasing her. She got fed up, maybe she thought I died, or whatever, and she didn’t wait around to find out. There was a baron that helped deliver the chest of gold. Let’s just say he was immediately interested, and she took him to the cabin I had built for the both of us.”

Emm’s mouth dropped, and a growl resonated within her. “Please tell me she is alive, so I can kill her.”

I brushed a lock of my mate’s hair behind her ear. “My sweet mate, you don’t want to hear that story.”

“I do,” she whispered. “Please,” her breath tickled my ear.

“Later,” I brushed my lips with hers. “Besides, you want to know how all this came to be, right?”

Emm huffed in irritation. I loved her jealousy, wanting to know if my ex-mate was still alive. Keeping the information from her was going to be fun. I had plans for that later, too.

“Fine,” she rolled her eyes. “Keep going.”

“When I found out about my mate’s betrayal, my body underwent a transformation that hasn’t been seen in a thousand years. My body broke and molded into the Lycan that you saw. For the first time I had ever seen, Mordecai was scared out of his mind. I couldn’t stop it, it was painful. I thought I was dying.” I held my mate tighter, remembering how fucking frightened I was.

“When I stood up on two legs, Mordecai had my mother and gripped her around the neck. He told me to change back into my wolf form, but I didn’t know how,” I whispered. “I backed away and he—”

“Don’t—” Emm straddled me and held me. “Don’t say anything else.”

I buried my face into her shoulder and let out a long, deep breath. “He took her from me.”

For a long time, we sat there as I held my mate. She let me bury my nose in her neck, nuzzling the mark on her shoulder.

I wanted to fucking cry—and I hadn’t cried since I lost my sister. I couldn’t. I was beaten when I even looked like I was going to shed one ounce of emotion. When my mother’s neck broke and she stared up at me from the dirt, the tears would not come.

My chest tightened, constricting my breath as I desperately fought back the overwhelming surge of emotions. The weight of grief bore down on me, threatening to crush my soul. I could feel the burning ache behind my eyes, a telltale sign that tears were desperately clawing their way to the surface. But I had learned,through years of beatings, to bury those tears deep within me, to lock them away behind an impenetrable fortress.

The rawness of the memories flooded my mind, intensifying the ache within my heart. I saw my sister’s face, her laughter and warmth that had once filled our lives, now haunting my every waking moment. The guilt gnawed at me, echoing through the corridors of my mind, reminding me of the time I had failed to protect her.

And then, the image of my mother, lifeless and broken, flashed before my eyes. The shock of that moment, the sheer brutality of her untimely demise, threatened to shatter the heavy walls I had built around my emotions.

Sitting here with Emm, though, I wanted to let go, to surrender to the torrent of tears that threatened to escape me. I craved the release, but the fear of punishment, maybe not physical, just that of my mate seeing me as weak, was too strong.

“She—she smiled, though, when he held her by the neck.” I let out a heavy breath into my mate’s hair. “She smiled and whispered she loved me,” my voice trembled.

“Koen,” my mate whispered in my ear. “Let it out. I’m here for you, my sweet Koen.”

I gritted my teeth and let out a loud sob. My fingers pushed into her skin enough to bruise her. I couldn't stop, could not let go of her for fear she would fade away.

I let out a wail. “That fucking bastard!”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Emm

Iwas seated on his lap, feeling the weight of his body beneath me. His grip tightened, his hands dug into my skin, igniting a mix of pleasure and pain. As I stroked his back with one hand, I lost myself in the sensation of his muscles beneath my touch. My other hand became entangled in his hair, relishing the softness between my fingers.

He was sobbing, uncontrollably sobbing, and my heart tightened in my chest. I’d only seen a few men cry in my life—usually for their lives. They begged me not to take their life, but they were cowards, saying they had too much to live for.

They didn’t.

Locke did, though.