Page 7 of Jace's Mate
It had been nearly fifteen years since she’d first felt that force, barely old enough to reach the counter, but she remembered.Back then, it had been easier to suppress.Simple, even.But now, at twenty-five, it was louder.Stronger.Closer.
And so was she.
They didn’t understand that.Not Wilton.Not his guards.
They couldn’t possibly fathom what it was like to feel something ancient and wild rippling just beneath your flesh, demanding to be let out.They didn’t know how it burned through her veins like fire, how it wrapped around her thoughts like a predator testing the bars of its cage.
If she ever lost control completely—if she evergave in—she wasn’t sure she’d be able to come back.
And worse…
Her “uncle” might kick her out.
The thought made her stomach turn.Her knees went weak.
Wilton had threatened it before, casually—like tossing out the trash.But the idea of being banished for real, of being cast out alone, twisted something primal inside her.
She didn’t understandwhyit hurt so badly.But it did.
The fear felt bottomless.Like falling into a void where no one would ever hear her scream.
She didn’t understand, but knew that she wasn’t meant to be alone.She wouldn’tsurvivealone.The idea of being separated from this mismatched group—even this twisted mockery of one—sent her instincts into a full-blown panic.
It wasn’t just rejection.It would be annihilation.
Her terror at the thought made her physically ill.
But she couldn’t let Wilton see that.
It wasn’t just these increased urges that concerned her.Other things, strange things, were happening and she had no one to talk to, no one to explain what was happening.She looked at Wilton now, remembering the bloodstained sheets and the shredded clothes that returned with him after late-night outings.
She didn’t know what they did—didn’t want to—but blood didn’t lie.
She remembered the first time she’d asked about it.She’d been ten.Small for her age.Dressed in hand-me-downs two sizes too big.
Wilton had grabbed her throat and squeezed until she’d seen stars.
His breath had reeked of scotch.His voice had been low and deadly:“Never ask me about what I do.”
She hadn’t asked again.
But she’d never forgotten.
And now, standing there in front of him, flushed from her battle with whatever was inside of her, she was careful not to gloat.
Still, she knew: today, he had no excuse to punish her.
She was in control.
“Good girl,” Uncle Wilton said, his voice coated in mock praise.The sneer on his pudgy face made her stomach lurch.“Control it, or you’ll be forced to leave us.”
Leave us.
The words echoed in her skull, cold and final.
He walked to the door, then paused and looked back at her with a sickening little smirk.
“Oh, and don’t forget the braised beef for dinner.Make those potatoes I like.The soft ones.”
