Page 18 of The Alpha's Sin
Ours! I hear him growling inside my head. He doesn’t talk much but when he does, I listen. She’s ours—our mate—our female! We must protect her. Keep her safe.
I want to keep her safe too…but I want to do more than that.
I want to knot her…I want to breed her.
The realization breaks through the haze of lust that’s clouding my brain and I finally realize what I’m doing—breaking one of the two Unbreakable Laws of my people. (The other law is No Breeding in Fur Form, in case you’re interested.)
I pull away, breaking the kiss abruptly.
Poppy looks up at me with eyes that look almost drugged. I can smell the lust coming off her—a sweet, enticing scent seeping out of her pores that screams, “Breed me! I’m fertile!”
But she’s already pregnant. Why does her body smell like she’s going into her Heat Cycle?
“Why…why did you stop?” Her voice sounds dreamy…confused.
“Because we can’t do this.” I stand up and start pacing. “I’m sorry—it’s my fault. You just smell so fucking good and you’re so beautiful…”
She blushes, looking down at her hands.
“You don’t have to say things like that.”
“Things like what?” I look at her, confused.
“That I’m, you know, beautiful.” She makes a motion with one hand. “I mean, I’m fat and I’m going to get fatter. That’s not exactly attractive.”
She’s not fishing for compliments, she really feels this way—I can tell. Okay, we need to address this.
I sit back down beside her and lift her chin so our eyes meet.
“Poppy, you are beautiful,” I tell her sincerely. “You’re so fucking beautiful I’m having a really hard time keeping my hands to myself—even though I know you’re off limits.”
The skeptical look on her face says she remains unconvinced.
“Dirk used to say things like that too. He told me he loved ‘curvy girls’ but when I got a look at his Instagram, he was following all these super-skinny models and influencers.”
I frown. How can I convince her of how gorgeous she is? Then I have an idea.
“Hang on—I want to show you something.”
I get up and head to my bedroom. I come back with a framed picture of Sheila, my mate.
“Look.” I hold it out to Poppy who takes it and examines it.
“She’s really pretty,” she says at last. “Who is she?”
“My mate,” I say and sigh. Shelia had long, dark hair and dark eyes—a polar opposite to Poppy with her blonde hair and green eyes. But they have one thing in common and that’s curves. If anything, Sheila was curvier than Poppy is.
“Your mate?” Her eyes widen. “You’re married?”
“I was. She died ten years ago.” I take the picture back. “Breast cancer.”
“Oh.” Her eyes soften. “I’m so sorry.”
“I am too.” I shake my head. “I just wanted you to see her because she was curvy too.”
“I get it.” She nods. “I’m really sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks,” I say shortly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring you down. I just want you to know that I don’t give insincere compliments.”
