Page 95 of The Alpha's Unclaimed Mate
“It’s a date, then,” I say softly, and his hand finds mine.
A week.
That’s how long it takes me to realize my mate has decided we are roommates.
Not that anyone watching us would say that. He pulls my chair out at dinner. He keeps a hand on my back when we walk into rooms together. He has called me “Luna” in front of his pack twice without hesitation. The bond between us pulses warmly and steadily all day long, his attention in my chest like a low hum I have learned to exist with.
Then, he turns off the lamp. He kisses my forehead. He turns his back to me. He sleeps.
The first night, I told myself the mark was fresh, and he was being respectful. The second night, I told myself the same thing. By the third, I started paying attention to the tiny details.
So, I have a mate who takes cold showers at five in the morning and kisses my forehead at eleven at night. Excellent.
I would understand it if he didn’t want me. But I can read a room. He wants me. I felt it through the bond when I bent over his desk to point at a clause this afternoon; he stood up so fast that his chair hit the wall. I felt it when his palm landed at my hip on the front steps yesterday. I felt it just now when I came out of the bathroom with my hair wet, and his eyes did a slow, careful track up the line of my body before he caught himself and looked away.
He wants me. He just isn’t going to do anything about it. And he has not told me why.
I pride myself on being good at interpreting situations, but this one is wearing me down.
I climb into bed. The cool silk of my nightgown slides against my skin. He is already here, propped on his elbow with a folder open against his bent knee. When he sees me, he sets the folder on the side table without finishing the page.
“Tired?” he asks.
“Mm.”
He turns out the lamp.
His lips land on my forehead. The kiss is warm. Brief. He settles onto his side and folds an arm under his head. His breathing finds its rhythm within minutes.
The bond hums on between us as I stare at the ceiling.
Lucas has gone to sleep with his knuckles resting against the back of my hand on the sheet, the way he has every night this week, and at some point, this minor, thoughtful gesture has stopped being sweet and started being insulting.
A mean thought drifts up from the part of me that does not have manners. Maybe the curse won’t be what kills me. Maybe this pent-up desire will do me in first. Or maybe I’ll save it the trouble and kill myself.
I huff a quiet laugh into the dark.
He doesn’t stir.
I lie there, listening to him breathe. I count to ten the way one of my old yoga teachers used to make us do, then to twenty, and somewhere past forty, I lose track and start over. The mark on my collarbone vibrates against the silk. The bond tugs steadily and softly on its tether and goes nowhere.
At some point, I drift off.
It’s a howl that wakes me.
Long, raw, the kind of sound that opens your eyes before your brain catches up to why. A second one rises under it, shorter, closer to the estate. And then, a third one breaks off mid-note.
Lucas is already out of the bed. I push up onto my elbow and look at him. The room is dark, the curtains a pale rectangle behind him.
“Stay here,” he tosses over his shoulder as he pulls on his shirt, pants, and shoes.
“What is that?”
“I don’t know yet.”
He’s out the door before I can say another word. The latch clicks behind him. I sit there in the dark with my heart in my throat for two seconds, three, and then I’m on my feet, pulling my robe off the chaise and knotting the belt around me as I move.
The corridor is cold. Voices down in the entrance hall, quick and low. Boots on stone. Someone running.
