Page 24 of Rejected Alpha Mate

I’m halfway to the kitchen, tiptoeing on bare feet, when I hear the hinges of the back door creak, then squeak back into place. Frowning, I carefully continue until I’m at the arched doorway, close enough to peek into the kitchen, only to see Nicholas at the fridge.

My body tenses, my spine straightening, and I’m about to turn on my heel and return to my room when Nicholas shuts the fridge door with a purposeful thud and calls out, “Is that you, Donna?”

Feeling like a deer caught in the headlights, my eyes widen, and I tuck my bottom lip between my teeth. Sighing when Nicholas’s silence signals that he’s waiting for me to come out, I walk through the doorway to find him chugging down the carton of milk.

“Ugh…” I groan, wincing and turning my face away. “Old habits die hard, huh?”

“You know it,” Nicholas says when he’s gulped down his milk, throwing me one of those charming winks. His boyish grin with a white line across his upper lip affects me in ways I thought he never could again.

But beyond the resentment I have for him is something softer. Something I wish didn’t exist at all.

I cross my arms and remind myself that I need to cling to my anger so I don’t risk falling victim to his charms. “What are you doing up so late?” I ask in a clipped tone, and Nicholas leans across the island with both arms, sliding toward me as I take a seat.

“Alpha duties,” he smirks, and I roll my eyes.

“Is that supposed to impress me? Because it doesn’t,” I sniff and turn my face away—mostly because his scent, mixed with the human saltiness of sweat, is rich in the air.

Nicholas chuckles as he straightens up, dumping the empty carton in the trash can. “You know…I could ask you the same thing. Why are you awake at this hour?”

I purse my lips, not wanting to reveal why I woke up with a start, and my hesitation allows Nicholas to continue.

“Lemme guess…you’re hungry.”

It’s not a question, and it’s not a statement that leaves any room for protest as Nicholas goes back to the fridge and gathers some items into the crook of his arm.

“What are you doing?” I ask, even if I already know the answer. I just refuse to accept that he remembers.

“Breakfast at midnight,” he smirks as he throws me another wink, then heads to the stove.

I wish he didn’t remember.

I hate that he does.

‘Breakfast at midnight’ was something we shared last summer, but it was mostly an excuse to rendezvous behind Dominic’s back. We’d make omelets as a midnight snack, wanting to spend every waking moment with each other during my brief visit to Wells.

Gulping hard, I watch as Nicholas arrives at the stove, still partly dressed in the black suit he wore for our mating ceremony, but without the blazer. The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up to his elbows, exposing the tribal tattoos on his muscular forearms.

Instinctively, and totally absentmindedly, my fingers tingle with the urge to trace the veins there, trace the ink the way I used to. I lick my lips as I give myself the liberty to run my eyes over other parts of him while he isn’t looking, while he wouldn’t catch me ogling.

That’s when my eyes land on his plump rear, unabashedly staring and imagining my nails biting crescent moons in the taut flesh as something harder slides between my lips…

“Fuck!” Nicholas grunts under his breath, an egg slipping out of fingers that twist uncontrollably. The shell cracks, and yolk and albumen spill out, while Nicholas is at the counter, gripping his left shoulder with his right hand and wincing in pain.

Seeing him in pain is supposed to bring me a sense of satisfaction, but it’s not even bittersweet. Instead, I’m jolted out of the chair, springing to my feet and rushing toward him like I care when I should be hating him.

It’s not even something I can control right now, like my inner wolf—that poor, innocent, naive soul that knows only unconditional love—is calling the shots, compelling me to reach out toward him where he’s bent over at the waist, sucking in a frustrated breath through gritted teeth.

“Nick…what’s wrong?” I ask, tentatively reaching out.

He turns his face to the side, eyes riddled with torture, but so soft and earthly green that my heart pangs.

“I-I don’t—”

Nicholas groans again, his face contorting with pain, and my eyes flit to the shoulder he’s clutching, shaking my head slowly. It can’t be that he hasn’t healed yet—he’s an alpha.

That’s when the curiosity wins, and I reach out more firmly, placing my hand on his shoulder.

The electric pulse that ignites doesn’t shoot through me the way it usually does when we make physical contact. This time, it pools in my palm, heating my flesh, and weighing my hand on Nicholas’s skin so I can’t even retract it.