Page 56 of The Alpha's Auctioned Pregnant Mate

Am I any better than those who would have sold her if I'm keeping her here against her will?

Articus took a long swig of his drink, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat. The expensive liquor did little to soothe the turmoil in his mind. He was dressed in his usual attire—a crisp white button-down shirt and tailored black slacks. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, showcasing his muscular forearms.

Articus ran a hand through his white hair, frustration etching lines on his face. The scent of pine and earth waftedthrough the open window, a reminder of the freedom just beyond these walls—a freedom that Wren might be longing for.

He wanted nothing more than to go to Wren, to tell her how he felt, to ask her to be his mate in truth, not just in name. But how could he? How could he put that pressure on her when she might feel obligated to say yes?

He turned away from the window, his blue eyes scanning the room without really seeing it. As Alpha, he was supposed to protect people, to lead with wisdom and fairness. But here he was, selfishly wanting to keep Wren for himself, even if it meant limiting her freedom.

I'm holding her back. She deserves better than this.

Draining the last of his scotch, Articus set the glass down with a soft clink. He left his office, his Italian leather shoes silent on the hardwood floors as he moved through the house. The scent of garlic and herbs led him to the kitchen, where Wren was preparing dinner.

She stood at the granite countertop, her lithe body moving with a grace that caught his eye, her light brown hair pulled back in a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She wore a simple white tank top that hugged her curves and faded jeans that rode low on her hips.

He leaned against the doorframe, content for a moment just to watch her. Wren hummed softly as she chopped vegetables, her hazel eyes focused on the task at hand. There was a smudge of flour on her cheek, and Articus felt an overwhelming urge to brush it away.

"Need any help?" he asked, his deep voice cutting through the sizzle of oil in a pan and the rhythmic sound of a knife on a cutting board.

“If I sent Martha away, what makes you think I want yours?” Wren looked up, a smile lighting her face when she saw him.

Ouch!

“Well, if she hasn’t told you, I will,” Articus puffed up his chest. “I make the best boiled eggs this side of the mountain.”

The kitchen lights caught the gold flecks in her hazel eyes, making them sparkle as she laughed. "I've got it under control, but you're welcome to keep me company, egg master."

Articus moved into the kitchen, settling himself on a stool at the counter. He watched as Wren continued her preparations, admiring the confidence with which she moved around the space. It was as if she belonged there, as if this had always been her kitchen.

But it's not her choice to be here.

The thought struck him again, souring the warmth he felt watching her.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Wren's voice broke through his musings.

Articus blinked, realizing he'd been frowning. He forced a smile. "Just thinking about pack business. Nothing important."

Wren raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it, but she didn't push. Instead, she changed the subject, telling him about a book she'd been reading.

Articus listened, cherishing the animated way she spoke, the passion in her voice as she described the story. Her free hand gestured expressively, nearly knocking over a bottle of olive oil.

This is what I want. Every day. But does she?

As Wren turned back to the stove, Articus made a decision.

"Wren," he said, his voice softer than he intended. She turned, a questioning look in her eyes, a strand of hair falling across her face. "Would you like to go out tomorrow night? There's a place I'd like to show you."

The smile that spread across her face made his heart skip a beat. "I'd love to," she said, and for a moment, Articus let himself believe that her enthusiasm was genuine.

***

The next evening found Articus standing in front of his closet, scrutinizing his wardrobe with an intensity usually reserved for pack negotiations. The soft glow of recessed lighting illuminated rows of tailored suits, crisp shirts, and polished shoes. He wanted to look good for Wren.

He pushed the thought away, finally settling on a deep blue button-down shirt and dark jeans. Casual, but not too casual. He ran a hand through his hair, took a deep breath, and headed downstairs to meet Wren.

She was waiting for him in the foyer. Wren wore a simple sundress in a soft peach color that complemented her tan skin. The fabric hugged her curves before flowing out at her hips, ending just above her knees.

Her light brown hair fell in loose waves around her shoulders, framing an oval face with a gentle jawline. Her skin held a natural, sun-kissed glow, and her lips, full and naturally pink, curved into a warm smile.A delicate gold necklace adorned her neck, catching the light with every movement of her slender figure.

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