Page 16 of Sold Rejected Mate
I didn’t expect her to act like I’m holding her hostage.
For ten minutes, I pace the kitchen, wishing for a call. My body still aches from the night of the motel fire, but I’d much rather be in the woods, sweating my ass off and fighting daemon fire, than here with her, trying to navigate this hellscape.
Daemon fire is unpredictable, but at least I know how to handle it.
I pause, hands on the kitchen counter, wondering if that’s the problem. Maybe I’m trying to kill her with kindness, but it’s sliding right off, like water on a daemonic fire.
Maybe I need to figure out which type of extinguisher works for this type of flame.
Grabbing a bowl of ice chips and a kitchen towel to fold under the bowl, I walk into her room with renewed vigor. I grab the TV remote, mute it, and meet her eyes as she turns her head to me, her mouth falling open like a stubborn little kid.
“Listen up,” I say, setting the bowl of crushed ice on the table. “That other guy in your hospital room? He thinks we should execute you for the crime of starting the fire at the motel.”
Her eyes widen, and I watch her try to swallow. She coughs against the raw feeling, the pain twisting her face.
“I don’t want that to happen,” I say, not elaborating on the reason. How can I tell this woman that I have this weird, almost protective feeling about her? “But he’s not going to wait forever. You need to heal so you can tell him your side of the story. And you’re not going to heal if you don’t drink any water.”
I gesture to the bowl of crushed ice. “The internet says this is better than water. I can bring you more soup. Or something else—it’s up to you. But I’m done sitting around and watching you suffer. I know this is weird—I know you don’t know me, and you don’t trust me. You probably just want to be left alone. But you’re hurt, and whether you like it or not, you need help.”
For a long moment, the words hang between us like a lob stuck in the air, not quite sure if someone is going to catch it or drop the ball.
Then, slowly, like she’s forgotten how to move her arms during her cartoon, bed-rotting haze, she reaches for the bowl of ice chips, picking it up. When it looks too heavy for her, I step forward to put a hand under it and help her get it on her lap.
When she takes one and places it on her tongue, relief so palpable I could cry floods through me.
I don’t know what in the hell is wrong with me—I’ve never felt like this before in my life. These strong, protective feelings. Like, if she dies, it might actually kill me, too.
“Alright,” I say, shoulders relaxing when she puts the second ice chip on her tongue. “Okay—good. Now I’m going to go to the kitchen and make you a bowl of soup. For the love of the gods, don’t make a break for it through the window while I’m gone. It drops right into the koi pond.”
Maybe I’m losing my mind, and maybe I’m only imagining it, but I almost think I hear her laugh when I’m on my way out.
Chapter 9 - Valerie
I fucking hate this.
I hate sitting in this bed, being trapped here, eating ice chips, and trying to move my leg. I hate that Lachlan has to bring me food and water like a fuckingbaby. And Ireallyhate the channel about home renovation, watching a bunch of rich people pick out which million-dollar beach house they’re going to choose, so I put every ounce of energy I have into finding the remote and changing the channel.
It takes hours, but I manage it, shaking and sweating, wishing after all that I’d eaten something, if only to have the strength to get anything about tile and grout off the screen.
Even more than I hate the shows about buying houses, I hate having Lachlan near me.
It’s dragging up old feelings from high school, memories of detention after detention, Lachlan appearing and sitting next to me, talking to me, until I realized he was getting in trouble on purpose to be near me.
I hate seeing him like this, those shining, brown-blue-gold eyes fixed on me, assessing and careful. I hate seeing how gentle and caring he can be. How he treats some random, injured woman. A woman, his alpha supreme believes started a fire.
Right now, as a stranger, he’s treating me nicer than he ever did back when I thought we were friends. When I thought we were a lot more than that.
On the second day, after I agree to eat some of his ice chips and take a few bites of the soup, Lachlan seems to relax.Stops fluttering around me like I’m going to pass out any second. It’s a relief and a detriment all at once.
Some stupid, underdeveloped part of my brainwantshim around. Wants him near me. Likes watching his arms flex as he adjusts the pillows. Likes the way his scent washes over me. Enjoys seeing him laugh quietly in the armchair.
At one point, he leaves, and I hear the telltale sound of running water behind the wall. Even in what must be a multi-million dollar home, you can hear the sound of running water.
Know that someone has just turned the shower on.
The idea of that—of Lachlan undressing, stepping into the shower—sends an unexpected and unwanted jolt of lust through me. My brain lingers on the idea of his legs, strong and sculpted. His arm, reaching up to turn on the water. Him tipping his face back under the stream, like something from a shampoo commercial.
Then my brain starts to superimpose myself in that bathroom, dropping my clothes, stepping into the shower with him, and I do my best to cut it off with a hard line, keep it from going too far. I cannotbe having fantasies about Lachlan Cambias.
