Page 12 of The Alpha's Bullied Rejected Mate
Chapter 3 - Marcus
Marcus Vale had earned the nickname “The Charmer” for a reason.
Where other hunters came with brute force and had to break down doors to enter, he could gain access by offering a smile. Trust—that was his weapon of choice. People gave it freely. Easily. Especially when they believed you’d saved them and you brought them no harm.
He had done this before. Too many times. And he never failed at it.
This assignment was no different. It was a carefully orchestrated plan. Stage a car accident. Play the hero. Rescue the witch. Make her feel safe enough to invite him in.
It was a game of gratitude, and gratitude softened even the strongest defenses. Once they were softened, they were yours to manipulate.
Now he was in her apartment, playing his part of the injured hero. And the woman named Aza was playing hers, though she didn’t know it yet.
“Sit there,” she ordered, nodding toward a chair positioned near the center of the room. Her voice was measured, guarded, but not quite cold.
Marcus moved as instructed, lowering himself slowly into the seat with a faint grunt that sold the pain. He exhaled softly as his eyes flickered over the room with the precision of someone trained to notice details.
It was neat with minimalist decorations. There were no photographs on the walls, and he detected no scents of magic. She had maintained her guard, even in her own home.
Impressive.
“You have a nice place,” he said, letting his voice drift into that casual, honey-laced cadence. The kind that invited people to speak more than they meant to.
“Thank you,” she responded briskly, pulling a white plastic box from a nearby drawer. A first aid kit. Her fingers moved with precision as she unlatched it.
Marcus watched the way her eyes flicked, almost unconsciously, to the wall clock.
“Stretch out your arm,” she instructed.
He obeyed, revealing the gash. It was a deep tear, and his flesh had split open in a jagged line, the edges swollen and red.
It looked worse than it felt. The wound would heal within hours thanks to his werewolf nature, but she didn’t need to know that. It had done its job. It had gotten him through her door.
She grabbed a cotton swab and dipped it in a menthol-scented liquid. The sting came immediately as she dabbed the wound, cleaning it with a practiced hand.
“Thank you,” he offered, his tone deliberately light. “I’m guessing you don’t do this often,” he pressed.
“Basic first aid is a requirement for my job.”
He tilted his head, then asked. “What do you do?” Like he wasn’t reviewing a dossier on her a while ago.
She hesitated for half a second before replying, “I teach kindergarten.” She glanced at the clock again.
Suddenly, they heard a knock on the door.
Aza’s fingers froze mid-motion, still clutching the blood-tipped cotton swab.
Marcus sensed the sudden shift in her energy as she went utterly still.
She moved to the door with controlled calm, opening it to reveal an older woman and a small boy, no more than four or five years old, with tousled blonde hair and amber eyes.
Her eyes flicked toward Marcus briefly. Fear flashed across her face, there and gone in an instant, but Marcus caught it.
He masked his surprise, but internally, his mind started to race.
The child ran forward to her with a wide grin. “Mama!”
Marcus blinked. Mama?
