Page 115 of Psycho Alphas: Part Two

Finally, my response came, barely a breath so no one else could hear. “Make me.”

He took the bait quicker than I imagined, coiling the chain in his fist and dragging it toward him. I was ripped off balance—forced to grab the edge of his chair and readjust my knees on the floor.

My breathing was rough, fury bleeding crimson into the edge of my vision, and I felt all the attention in the room once more, each gaze deathly curious. Thistle was frozen on Ace’s lap, pen now—for some reason—between her teeth. She stared at me like a deer in headlights as Rogue replied.

“They all know you’re fresh in chains, Mutt. Might even be surprised if I didn’t have to discipline you publicly before the night was over, but I wasn’t expecting it to be so soon.”

I caught a growl on its way up my throat.

But we both knew if he pushed it, I had to do what he asked. We needed everyone to believe that I was dealt with. I didn’t want anyone to have incentive to pry further. The best way to do that was to show them something none of them would ever be able to fake: the complete destruction of pride.

Finally, I tugged the chain from him, and he loosened it—but only a little.

“Choose.”

My mind picked through the options, bitterly weighing them. Not really a choice, though, and he knew that.

Very slowly, so I didn’t lose my sanity entirely, I readjusted myself on my knees just like I’d instructed him to last year.

“Hands on your lap. Don’t move an inch unless I tell you to. You’re part of the decor tonight, Mutt.”

Rogue sank back against the chair, relaxed and glowing with delight. “Good boy,” he murmured, flicking the side of my muzzle.

I took a slow breath, fighting the rumble of a growl on the exhale.

Ace seemed thoroughly amused, and Thistle was shooting me side-eyes, her cheeks flushing every time I caught her looking. I could practically see her doing the math on how many welts she would be getting later for doing absolutely nothing to distract Rogue.

That, at least, cooled my blood pressure. I took a breath, taking myself back to the dark closet she’d dragged me into, the way her hand had pressed to my chest as she focused intently on the knife.

That wound she’d left was still raw and aching, still grounding.

This was a fucking performance.

That was all.

I repeated those words over and over in my head, trying not to catch the impish delight perpetually dancing across Rogue’s expression. On his end, it was definitely not an act.

As much as I dared—and never letting Banner out of my periphery, I tried to tune out some of the party. In particular, I ignored the bloody fight on the screen. The vicious struggle echoed around the room, however, and white-clad slaves in Bella’s charge, kept reminding me of my own fate had Rogue not saved me the other week.

Fuck.

Not a comforting thought.

I focused my attention on the guests, drowning out the sounds of the dying Alphas. Years created habits that died hard. Any moment could be a crucial piece of information for Doyle. I watched every time one of the guests interacted with one of Bella’s servers. It was subtle, almost playful, had I not known the meaning of it. A marker would come out, leaving a coloured line on a white gown—a sleeve, a skirt, or a waist.

It was a signal to Bella of what preferences they had for future events or meetings. If she wanted a favour, she had a gift in return.

When I couldn’t watch anymore, I took a break by examining Thistle, who was still all but glowing from the introduction of the night.

I wished I could have as much faith in Ace as she did. Maybe even find something to celebrate, if I believed in Bella’s demise tonight just like I knew she did. But nothing good in life had ever come without a catch, and no part of my being believed I would leave this place free of this bond.

Ace’s goal was to protect Thistle—not me—and I still didn’t know if he had it out for me.

It was possible he believed she would move on if he left me behind. He’d weathered so much worse between them, and thatwasn’t something I could forget. He’d survived her hatred, her pain, her destruction, and he was still there, the other half of Bunny.

What was I?

A passing feeling. Not destined to her. Not bonded to her.