The Tyrant Alpha's Rejected Mate, page 1
The Tyrant Alpha’s Rejected Mate
Cate C. Wells
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright 2021 by Cate C. Wells. All rights reserved.
Cover art and design by Clarise Tan of CT Cover Creations
Edited by Nevada Martinez
Proofread by Kayla Davenport
Special thanks to Lily Luchesi of Partners in Crime Book Services, Kara M., Julia B., Elizabeth L., Elisabeth J., Layne K., Jennifer S., Stephanie H., Leslee N., Sara B., and Kate A.
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Contents
Chapter 1
UNA
Chapter 2
KILLIAN
Chapter 3
UNA
Chapter 4
KILLIAN
Chapter 5
UNA
Chapter 6
UNA
Chapter 7
KILLIAN
Chapter 8
UNA
Chapter 9
KILLIAN
Chapter 10
UNA
Chapter 11
UNA
Chapter 12
KILLIAN
Chapter 13
KILLIAN
Chapter 14
UNA
Chapter 15
UNA
Chapter 16
UNA
Epilogue
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About the Author
1
UNA
“Una! Come get this!”
I hunch over and text quicker.
I’ve got a guy from the city willing to drive down and pay three hundred dollars for five pounds of dried morel mushrooms. I’m getting ripped off. He’s going to turn around and sell them to some fancy restaurant for six hundred, minimum, but three hundred is a nice payday when technically, I’m not allowed to handle human money.
Or talk to human men.
Or own a phone.
Or leave pack land without permission.
I’m probably not allowed to harvest morels, either, but there’s no rule, and his highness Killian Kelly never deigns to notice what mere females do all day while he and the males train and spar and condition.
I’m not mad about it. Now that Killian has the males fighting on the circuit, there’s food to eat besides what our wolves can catch and money for gas and electric. When Killian’s father was alpha, we did the laundry by hand in rain barrels and lived on venison and rabbit.
Unmated and unprotected females like me still rank low, but back in the day, I’d be working on my back, not bussing tables. That’s progress. We’re almost out of the Middle Ages in the Quarry Pack.
“Una!” Old Noreen snaps her fingers and points her hooked chin at a tray with five plastic pitchers filled to the brim with foam.
Now that’s a challenge I’m likely to fail. My arms are strong, but my bad leg plays hell with my stability.
Old Noreen must read my look of dismay. “You’ll be fine. It’ll save you having to make another trip in twenty minutes, and then you can bury your nose in that phone to your heart’s content. Come on, girl.” She snaps a few more times.
My phone vibrates. The human—Shroomforager3000—confirms the deal is on. Three hundred dollars. My heart soars. I send him the time and place.
It’s not my turn to make the run into town this week. Annie’s up. I’ll have to swap with her. It wouldn’t be right to ask her to break the “no human male” rule. If we ever get busted selling to the vendors at the farmer’s market in Chapel Bell, it’ll be bad enough. I can’t imagine what Killian would do if one of us were caught with a man.
A sliver of fear skates down my spine. It would be bad. Killian believes in making examples. If a packmate breaks the rules, if he doesn’t work hard enough, if he shows weakness—he’s dirt. Killian is fearless, unrelenting, and merciless. His life’s goal is to bully everyone else into being the same.
If he caught us in town, trading with humans—it wouldn’t matter that we’re females. There’d be hell to pay.
I breathe through the anxiety. We won’t get caught. We haven’t yet.
I power off my phone and tuck it in our hidey hole behind the crockpot. Then I head for the pitchers of beer, my bum leg dragging behind me, shoe rubber squeaking against the tile. I hoist the tray and find my balance.
“You got it?” my youngest roomie Mari asks over her shoulder. She’s at the sink up to her elbows in suds.
“Yup.” My bad leg can’t take my full weight, but I can use it like a crutch to hobble along. It’s not graceful, but I manage.
I take a steadying breath and shoulder through the swinging door into the great room. Beer is already sloshing over the brim of the pitchers. I’m going to get dirty looks for that.
Killian’s lieutenants don’t think much of me. They respect strength. Dominance. The wolf. I’ve got none of that.
Well, I do have a wolf. I can feel her. But for some reason, I’ve never gone into heat, so I’ve never shifted.
Abertha, the pack’s crone, says that some wolves come later than others. Maybe back when I was a girl, during the attack that mangled my leg, my wolf got skittish, and in good time, she’ll find the courage to shift. Or maybe I’m just a late bloomer.
I want to meet my wolf. I’ve watched a three-legged dog in town, and it keeps up with the others. Abertha says my bad leg will manifest in the wolf, but she thinks only one limb will be jacked up. It’s a fear of mine—that I’ll finally shift, and two legs will be useless.
It’s the kind of worry I don’t spend much time on. No heat, no change, no wolf. And there’s no sign of my heat, so it’s kitchen duty and the old maid’s cabin for me.
I don’t mind since the alternative is mating one of these meathead assholes.
I slowly make my way between the tables. None of the males bother to move their stretched legs out of my path. Wouldn’t want to acknowledge my weakness. That’d be rude.
They avert their eyes as I pass, otherwise ignoring me. Which is fine. I feel bad for their mates, stuck on their laps or crushed to their sides, forced to listen to them recount old fights in excruciating detail—for the umpteenth time.
I’m skirting the edges of the great room, focused on the task at hand, when Killian’s voice booms from his makeshift throne on the dais.
“Lochlan.” He snaps and points to the open floor at his feet. Lochlan’s crew goes nuts. Shouts shake the rafters.
“And—” Killian pauses for dramatic emphasis. “Tye.”
The shouts turn to howls. Folks stomp their feet. Everyone has been waiting for this match. Lochlan Byrne has been picking fights, challenging wolves closer and closer in rank to Killian. Lochlan’s working himself up to a beta challenge and everyone knows it.
Tye is our beta now. If Lochlan wins, he can demand the rank, and Killian would be going against tradition to deny him. If Tye wins, Lochlan has to step back down. For now. My stomach aches. I spend a lot of time worrying about what would happen if Lochlan and his backers took over. It wouldn’t be good for me and my roomies, that’s for damn sure.
Killian’s a dick, but Lochlan is a “back in the day” type. You know, “back in the day” bitches presented at command. None of this mating-for-life bullshit. “Back in the day” the alpha put down defective wolves. For their own good. This, of course, is always said within my hearing while eyeing my bum leg.
I’m not afraid of Lochlan, but I’m terrified of all the packmates who think like him and keep it on the down low. I’m scared they’ll outnumber Killian’s crew, and I won’t see it coming in time to run.
I can live with our current level of backwards, but I’m not going face down, ass up because some higher-ranking male wants to scratch an itch. Screw that. I’ve got cash in a jar buried behind my cabin. I’ve got options.
As Tye and Lochlan make their way to the center of the room and square off, Killian bends forward in his metal folding chair, bracing his forearms on his thick thighs. It might as well be a throne. The huge fireplace at his back frames him in stone and fire, and no one dares approach unless he gives them the nod.
Tye and Lochlan bump fists and crouch. It’s gonna be a wrestling match. I edge along the wall. They’re cutting off my direct route, but I can pick my way to the table that needs the beers.
With a grunt, the males collide.
Killian’s cruel lips soften into what might be considered a smile, but it’s a lot closer to the look a snake has after it swallows a rat.
I don’t know why I’m watching Killian. Usually, I avoid eye contact with higher ranks at all times. Saves a lot of getting asked to fetch something.
Killian’s not looking at me, though. He’s intent on the fight. There’s no clear favorite at the moment. It’s a two-man rugby scrum.
My arms are getting heavy, and somehow, it’s hotter in here than
I inch further toward the front table, but as soon as I step near the open floor, the fighters sprawl in front of me. Tye scrabbles for dominance. There’s a crackle in the air—like he might shift.
I’m stuck. If I venture closer and they change, I’m wolf meat. If I’m in their way, they’ll plow me over.
Sweet Fate, someone needs to crack a window. Now there’s sweat dripping down my back. Standing puts more pressure on my leg than moving, and my thigh muscles are starting to ache. This is miserable.
Why did I wear a flannel? It’s sticking to me. So gross.
I need to drop this tray and get some air. What if I just skirt them—
Lochlan slams Tye into the ground, barely missing my foot. Okay. Guess I’ll wait right here.
After several long moments of grunts and growls, Tye gains the upper hand. Half the room roars. Then there’s a reversal; Lochlan wrangles Tye into a headlock, and the other half goes wild.
Killian watches, fingers steepled, gaze flickering from male to male. Our king. He’s wearing a plain white tank top, faded jeans, and tan work boots. It’s pretty much a uniform in this pack.
Killian should look basic, but he doesn’t.
His shirt clings to every defined muscle, and like his gargantuan wolf, he’s in a whole other weight class than the other males. His jeans hug his thighs, and they’re more solid, too. His sculpted shoulders are broader, his posture more arrogant, his dusky blue eyes flintier.
Every angle on his face is harsh. His nose is crooked, his Adam’s apple pronounced, his lips a slash. Even when he smiles, they barely curve.
I’m really thirsty. I swallow, but my mouth is bone dry.
Why am I looking at Killian Kelly’s lips?
I drop my gaze, and my face blazes. It’s the heat in here. It’s muddling my brain.
Killian Kelly is strong, but he’s not attractive. He looks mean—which is what he’s always been. He’s only two years older than me. I’ve known him since the day I was born, and I’ve never been into him like the other females. I’m not a rank groupie.
I shake myself off as best I can with a full tray. Tye and Lochlan are still blocking my way. I could go back, circle around behind the tables, but that’d take forever. It’s getting muggier and more humid by the second, and my shirt is sticking to me. I’ll wait a few more seconds. Tye looks to be making his comeback.
He’s not going to lose. Killian wouldn’t have ordered him to fight if it wasn’t a sure thing. Killian and Tye are closer than brothers, and in this pack, everything goes the way Killian wants.
That’s because unlike the other packs, Quarry Pack is ruled by strength, not blood. Any male can challenge for rank at any time. Theoretically, Killian could have to fight every day to keep the lead, but he doesn’t because he cannot be beat. It’s a fact.
Besides having the biggest wolf in the five packs, Killian’s a flip-shifter. He can change from skin to fur and back again whenever he wants, without effort, in the blink of an eye. It’s an unbeatable advantage.
Abertha says flip-shifting isn’t magic, but it sure as hell looks like it when he morphs back and forth mid-air. No one wants to challenge an alpha touched by the moon.
A flash of heat crashes through me. It has to be at least ninety degrees in here, and behind Killian’s makeshift throne, the fire’s roaring. Why does no one open the windows?
Probably because the mated and protected females are perfectly comfortable. They’re allowed to wear short sleeves, and per usual, the males who aren’t wearing tank tops are bare-chested.
My wrist is so tired. I switch so I’m holding the tray in two hands. My palms are getting slick. It’d serve them right if I dropped the tray, and they’d have to go get their own damn beer. The folks at the far table are already casting me dirty looks—like why don’t I wade through the shifter fight?
Ugh. I press my legs tight together. Sweat is dribbling down my inner thighs and tickling the back of my knees. And my stomach’s doing something weird. Do I have a fever? I can’t get sick. I’ve got a mushroom deal in the works.
Fortunately, the match seems to be wrapping up. Ivo Bell is squatting and squinting between Tye and Lochlan’s entangled bodies. I’m not sure why he doesn’t call the match. Tye is howling at the ceiling in victory, and Lochlan’s face is beet red, fur sprouting from his collar. There’s definitely a winner and a loser, and if Ivo doesn’t call it, there’s gonna be a wolf fight in the great room.
I can’t stand here any longer. I need air. All this male musk is making me queasy. I’m gonna yak. I grip the tray and pick my way around them, praying Lochlan doesn’t break free at the very last second and topple me ass over tea kettle.
Luckily, I make it past them to where Killian’s lieutenants sit next to the dais. From the way everyone treats the table like sacred ground, you’d think it’d be special, but it’s like the others—worn laminate top, backless benches, wheels. The tables came with the building when the pack bought the property in the 80s and stopped living in dens.
“Took you long enough,” Finn Murphy gripes as he grabs a pitcher, knocking my hand as he helps himself. I set the tray down and unload it. I don’t bother to respond. I don’t talk to dicks.
“Get us some more.” Finn shoves an empty bread basket at me. He doesn’t meet my eye, just gnaws on a drumstick while he watches Tye help Lochlan off the floor.
“Bad call,” he grumbles under his breath. He’s just sore because he’s in cahoots with Lochlan. From where I was standing, Tye won without a doubt.
I snag the basket and turn to go. I’m going to “forget” about the bread and duck out the back. The sun is setting. There’ll probably be a breeze from the foothills. I can cool down.
I want to be outside so bad. The desire hits me so hard, it’s a longing. I need open sky. I want to breathe in the night air. I want to bask in the moonlight.
Mostly, I want out of these clothes. My bra straps are digging into my shoulders, and my khakis are damp and too damn tight. They must’ve shrunk in the wash. Or I’ve ended up wearing Annie’s again by accident.
I take a step toward the kitchen, but before I head back, I glance up at the dais. I have to. I’m called. It’s instinct even though no one said my name.
But there’s only Killian, staring at me.
Heat bursts from my core, surging down my limbs, leaving my toes and fingertips tingling. I hold onto the empty tray for dear life.
Why is he checking me out?
No, he’s got to be looking at the table behind me. He’s probably deciding who fights next. The sparring is incessant, at least until it gets late and drinking and groping take center stage.
There’s no need for me to linger here. I’m acting like he gave an alpha command, but he’s just scowling like usual. If I don’t move, he’s going to flick his hand imperiously to get out of the way like he does. Killian never deigns to speak if he can grunt and point. I don’t think he’s ever said an actual word to me.
I should hustle back to the kitchen as quickly as I can, but for some reason, I can’t make my feet move. I’m hyper-focused on the linoleum floor now, cheeks burning, stuck. Because his eyes are on me.
My heart thumps, echoing in my ears.
And there’s a new delicious aroma weaving through the usual beer and roast meat and other earthy pack smells. It teases my nose, warm and sweet and sticky in the best possible way. It’s not coming from the kitchen. It’s—I don’t know where it’s coming from.
The ache in my leg fades. There’s a pleasant buzz in my head now, softening everything. The constant grating ruckus of mealtime in the lodge fades—the fluorescent lights overhead, the shrill laughter of the females, and the braying of the males. It’s all muted. Like an old talkie movie in black and white.
I peek up out of the corner of my eye. Is Killian sitting taller? He’s still glaring, and his hard, almost craggy face has become thunderous. He’s pissed. That’s my cue to leave, but still—still—I can’t go.
