Page 27 of Omission

No. I can’t entertain this.

Isabella would’ve warned me. We’ve spent time a lot of time together and talked for hours on end while I brought her food or stayed close by in order to help her avoid being alone with any male. My brother and father are the ones I worried the most about. They had plans for her—wanted to break her—but then her mate came.

They all did, and thank the Goddess for that. She’s going into heat soon yet remained calm, and I should’ve known her demeanor meant he was coming.

I don’t think she meant her werewolf, though.

“I’m going insane. That’s it,” I mutter low and the warlock raises a brow. A sexy, amused grin curls at his lips, but he chooses to not answer. Instead, he lets me process everything…

In the last few days, I’ve been threatened and hurt.

I’ve been drugged and taken from my home country and to this cold and isolated building.

I put myself in the wrathful way of a man and his sister who want to destroy me.

Watched the God of War decapitate my father. Stood by as his blood bathed the floor inside this safe room while my brother tried to grab me and escape, but to me, these mini movie reels of time are nothing but a distant memory. Nothing exists outside of this man’s proximity and the scent of chocolate with complimentary notes of cloves infiltrating my senses.

It reminds me of cold winters and the comfort and warmth a decadent cup of hot chocolate brings. Thick, rich, and delicious. A hint of spice seamlessly envelopes the sweet; they merge and play—tease me—and I find myself leaning a little forward before pulling back.

I smelled this before. Know I have.

Then I remember where: my mother’s garden in that dream. His eyes are the same, too.

As is the warmth that seeps into my skin with his nearness. A few inches separate us, but to me, it’s as if we are flesh on flesh.

And he’s silently watching me while I take him in. Quiet and unconcerned with the craziness around us; a soft look that causes goosebumps to rise across my flesh slipping onto his face. For a shiver to run down my spine while my nipples bead and push against the tight fabric of my dress.

A groan to the right of us is loud yet muted, but nothing takes precedence over his words.

They play on repeat.

Hello, little mate.

They grow louder in my ears while his tone deepens into a near growl.

Hello, little mate.

“What’s happening to me?” No answer. No help. No explanation as to why I’m so entranced when fae soldiers lay dead on the ground. When my brother and forced intended are kneeling—the pain-filled sound coming from one of the two almost makes me look over, but then the man before me shakes his head, and I swallow hard. Even if I’m curious about the state of my kin, I don’t dare look over.

I feel no guilt or hurt over what’s happened here, and whatever the future holds for Ruben and Brice, it’s karma’s response to years of abuse dealt by these two men. But for once, I want to stand before them while they kneel outnumbered. While I showed them, they didn’t break me.

“What’s your name, little mate? Bless me with your voice.” The timbre of his voice wraps around me in an invisible hug, tight and firm, while his eyes darken a bit. The beautiful blue takes on deeper tones while the pupil expands until there’s nothing but a ring surrounded by endless black.

To anyone else, it would be frightening. To me, it’s beautiful.

He holds my sole attention.

Your mate is dead, Anaya. He’s using you.

The hurtful reminder comes from a voice inside my head, and I turn toward my brother. He’s never spoken to me through our link, finds me useless and beneath him, and this is more proof of that. As if I will ever forget the pain I lived through and survived, leaving behind a hollow shell of the cheerful girl I used to be.

Father told me my mate was a fae of lower ranking who passed away, and while I’ve always suspected he was involved in the death, I’ve never doubted him. Not when I suffered through the torture of our bond breaking—wore the bruises marking my loss for weeks—before it all suddenly disappeared without a single physical trace left behind.

His explanation has also never changed. Not then, or at the dinner I recently interrupted in hopes King Larue would choose his daughter’s happiness just once over his greed. To consider me as more than a commodity, versus a pawn he can move at his discretion.

It didn’t surprise me that he let me down.

My pain meant little to a man who caused the death of his mate. Because I lived through hell; my soul was ripped—torn in two—as the place where my mate would one day reside was stripped from me. Those agonizing days weren’t a figment of my imagination.

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