Page 13 of Sold Rejected Mate
“Fine,” I say, and I know it comes out a little too quickly in the way he narrows his eyes at me. Clearing my throat, I say, “That’s fair.”
And he’s right—since I’m following my instincts, fighting for her, it only makes sense that I care for her. That she comes home with me. It’s what I have to do.
Even if that means sacrificing overnight guests until she’s completely healed.
“Fine,” Xeran sighs, running a hand over his dark hair, which is long enough that it’s nearly in his eyes now. It’s only a matter of time before he takes a pair of scissors to his locks,or Phina sits him down and cuts them herself to avoid that fate. “Let’s get a doctor to look her over and get her out of here.”
He leaves to fetch a doctor, and I turn to face Green Hair, finding again something impossibly familiar in her face. Maybe I met her somewhere in passing, and my brain held onto that image. The particular shape of her nose, the flick of her eyebrows.
“Alright,” I say, watching her as she scowls at me. “Looks like you’re coming home with me.”
Chapter 7 - Valerie
Even through the haze of the pain medication and exhaustion, I can’t stop myself from gawking in awe at Lachlan’s place.
Before we left the hospital, they did a full examination on me, declaring my throat burnt to shit and something wrong with one of the ligaments in my leg. Despite the fact that I look fine on the outside, my magic apparently had better things to do than fix the things wrong on the inside of me.
Due to my internal injuries, they pumped me full of pain medicine and sent me off with fucking Lachlan Cambias, of all people.
Lachlan and Xeran both think I’m a stranger. And in what world does the hospital send an injured woman home with a random man?
Probably the world in which the alpha supreme vouches for that man, standing there during the discharge process, all the patient’s forms readingJane Doe.
And now we’re here, driving in his massive Jeep through some fancy, sleek black gates that pull open the minute he approaches. Does he havestaff? Does he have someone who sits at the gate, just waiting for him to get home so they can press a button and open it for him?
We pull into a long, well-lit garage alongside a sports car and a motorcycle, and Lachlan slides out of the driver’s seat with ease, circling around the side of the Jeep to collect me.
I try to open the door to get out before he can make it, but my hands are weak. Almost like I’ve just woken up, or like I was in a coma for days rather than unconscious for a few hours.
It hasn’t been days, has it? I have no idea where my phone is—the Sorel brothers either still have it or dropped it in the Silverville Creek the day they snatched me.
Carefully not touching me but herding me through the garage like I might spook and run in the opposite direction, Lachlan guides me through a door that opens up into a massive, industrial-looking kitchen, complete with stainless-steel countertops and shining, smudge-free appliances.
The living room stretches out to the side, looking like it’s from one of those home design magazines I’d flip through during my stint as a receptionist, each glossy page showing yet another room that was worth more than I could make in five years. All that money, just for it to look like not a single person had ever lived in it.
Lachlan leads me through the living room—“Watch your step,” he mutters—and I try not to think about how big the space is, how it could swallow any of the apartments I’ve lived in the past ten years. A wall of floor-to-ceiling windows on the other side shows off the fountains in the front yard.
The floors are hardwood—walnut, maybe?—and polished, gleaming in the low lights. Not a scuff or scratch to be seen. My eyes flick to a glass coffee table, huge art pieces, and a simple, glittering chandelier.
Everything is so clean that I become hyperaware of myself. My tangled hair, the lingering scent of smoke, the soot smudged under my fingernails.
Even with how pristine the furniture looks, Lachlan guides me over to it, gesturing for me to take a seat on the couch. “I’ll just have to get the guest room ready for you,” he says, and to my surprise, there’s a slight tinge of pink to his cheeks.
I sit on the couch, hating how comfortable it is, the leather smooth and supple under my touch. Lachlan looks at me for a second like I’m an object he’s not quite sure won’t tip over, then nods a bit to himself and turns on his heel, disappearing down a long hallway.
The moment he’s gone, I’m moving.
Every instinct in my body tells me to get gone. First, because Xeran, alpha supreme, is clearly advocating for some kind of punishment, which I’d only assume is because it’s pretty obvious that fire was my fault.
It was never my intention to start a fire.
But that seems to be the story every time.
When I get to my feet, a sharp, nagging pain flies up the inside of my leg. I’ve moved too quickly, pulled on the ligament that I apparently damaged at some point. Maybe it was the magic ripping through me, the current of it too much for my body to take.
Whatever caused it, it hurts like a bitch now. My breath catches in my throat, coming out in a harsh wheeze that hurts more than the leg thing.
I’m a wreck, but I still need to get out of here.
