Page 41 of Betrayed Alpha Mate

I press my forearm over my eyes and breathe through the ache in my chest, jaw clenched so tightly it hurts. I don’t reach for her through the metaphysical bond. I don’t push. I don’t let myself cross that line again, no matter how much every instinct screams to go to her, to pull her close, to undo the damage I helped carve into her heart.

She told me to leave.

So, I did.

But leaving doesn’t mean I stop caring. It doesn’t mean I stop feeling. And it sure as hell doesn’t mean I stop protecting her.

That’s why, when dawn breaks, it doesn’t feel like relief washing over me when the sun comes up. It feels like surrender. I’m surrendering to that which I cannot do, and accepting that I can’t cross the boundaries she set last night.

Even if it hurts, even if it kills me inside.

I now know what rejection feels like, and perhaps I had it coming. It’s punishment for my past crimes.

Throwing on clothes, I grab my toolbox and a ladder from the shed at the back of my house and head straight for Emily’s cottage before I can talk myself out of it.

The storm passed sometime in the early hours of the morning, leaving the world washed clean and heavy with mist. The air smells like wet earth and pine as I cross the yard, boots sinking slightly into the mud. It’s usually a fresh scent that brings comfort, but today, it’s the smell of my darkness and gloom. Emily’s cottage comes into view, quiet and small against the trees, and I slow down with a sigh. The damage is obvious even from here.

The hole in the roof gapes like an open wound, and I gulp, feeling an ache deep in my chest as if Emily’s cottage reflects my anguish.

I take a deep breath before I continue toward the cottage, stopping at the back and tightening my hand around the handle of the toolbox. I don’t knock. I don’t call her name.

I don’t want to startle her or force her into another conversation she didn’t ask for. This isn’t about us. It’s about the fact that her roof is compromised, that rain poured into her home all night, and that she was exhausted, alone, and hurting. I can fix at least one thing, because I know that she won’t let me fix anything else.

She’s still determined to shut me out, and that’s where I’ll remain until she decides otherwise.

So, I set the ladder against the side of the cottage, then climb up and get to work.

The roof is slick from the rain, but I move carefully, methodically, pulling away damaged shingles, laying down tarp, and sealing what I can before replacing what needs to be replaced. My hands know what to do even if my heart doesn’t.

Fix the problem. Secure the structure. Protect what’s underneath.

It feels like muscle memory. Instinctive.

I don’t let myself think about what’s underneath this roof beyond the practical: her bed, her kitchen, the walls she built her life inside when she was trying to survive without me. Thinking about anything else is dangerous territory.

Still, the bond is relentless, and I feel her waking up inside her bedroom. Trying to tune it out is pointless. It’s so strong that there’s no way I can feel anything else except the way she’s feeling.

I feel the moment she realizes she isn’t alone. She’s not startled, not afraid, just quietly aware. Her emotions flicker, cautious and sore and guarded, like a wound that hasn’t scabbed over yet. She doesn’t push at the bond this time. She just…watches.

I don’t look down, but I can feel her eyes boring into me as she recognizes my presence. I keep my focus on the roof, on the rhythm of the work, even when I feel her step into the kitchen below. I know exactly where she is without seeing her. I know the weight of her gaze, the way she stands too still, like she’s afraid any movement might shatter something fragile between us.

Minutes pass like that, maybe more, and I keep myself busy. I hear the kettle go on, then off, and then the sweep of the mop across the floor as she cleans up from last night. Next, I hear the hot water filling her cup. I’m aware of everything, every movement, and especially the torrent of her mixed emotions.

Finally, she speaks.

“You didn’t have to do this,” she says from below, looking up. Her voice is quiet. Not sharp. Not accusing. Just tired.

I pause long enough to wipe my hands on my sweatpants before answering. “I know.”

That’s it. No explanation. No justification. I can hardly bring myself to look into her eyes, so I keep my gaze pinned to what I’m doing as I knock a nail into the tarp, through the wooden beam to keep it secured in place.

I hear her exhale, a small sound, like she was bracing for an argument that never came.

“This doesn’t change anything,” she says after a moment. “Last night…it shouldn’t have happened.”

The words land heavily, even when I expected them, like the hammer slamming into my chest instead of the roof. I need a moment to compose myself, my heart shattering into pieces that are strewn further than any storm could have achieved. I don’t look at her. I can’t, because I might break. I don’t react. I just keep working to distract myself, to keep the last bit of my dignity intact.

“I’m not here to change anything,” I say evenly, swallowing the anguish building like a lump in my throat. “I’m not here to talk about last night.”