Page 25 of Psycho Alphas: Part Two
I reached forward, grabbing her by the shirt and dragging her against me.
Even that was enough to loosen my lungs.
“I love you,” I whispered. “And I’m so…” The word got trapped for a moment, threatening to drown me. “I’m sorry.” The truth, at last, came crashing down as I buried my face in her neck. Everything that had happened, it was because of me.
Myvendetta had turned on her.
I was the reason she was here at all.
All that pain she didn’t need to carry.
“You… you bit her.” Her words were muffled, but I could hear the pain in them.
“I’ll fix it, Doll,” I told her. “I promise.”
I would.
But now I knew that I’d saved her life by rejecting her before. I shivered, knowing the tiny frame clutched in my arms right now would be cold, still, and lifeless if I had bitten her when she’d asked it of me in this very room, with Rogue’s bond still dripping fresh blood.
But still, I hated that I’d been so prideful.
That I’d hurt her.
I would never make that mistake again.
It wasn’t long before I was on my way to fixing everything I’d broken in the fight. I didn’t regret beating the shit out of Rogue, but I’d ruined her dinner.
Plus, she had a feral soul match still in chains.
So while I boiled pasta on the stove, I worked on the Ace situation. With a crack, the metal split beneath the slim baton I was using as leverage, and the first of his cuffs clattered to the stone. The chains around his wrists were eroded and almost broken, so it hadn’t taken much effort to get them free.
His golden mask lay discarded on the ground beside us. He was quiet, seated against the bars of the cage. Not nearly rowdy enough for me to think about locking him in, which was… surprising.
I’d pushed Rogue for years, but I realised I had no idea what I was supposed to actually do with a feral Alpha.
He was far quieter than I’d imagined.
It was a good distraction from the bond still alive in my mind—one I was still getting a grip on. It was easier to shut Bella and her Alphas out when I was calm.
Right as I broke the second cuff off, a hiss cut through the silence from the stove.
“Shit.” I staggered to my feet, crashing toward Rogue’s kitchen—“Don’t!”
I nearly launched at Rogue again as he moved for the overflowing pot.
“I’m making it,” I snarled, grabbing him by the shirt. “You said truce.”
He peered down at my fist, then back up at me. “Do youknowwhat that means?”
“I’mmaking her pasta.”
His eyes slid to the hissing steam clouding the air as water boiled over. “Okay…” He stepped back, palms raised in mock surrender.
When the pot was drained and the stove finally shut up, some of the tension bled out of me.
But I wasn’t happy until Thistle was curled up on the couch, a bowl of spaghetti Bolognese in her hands as Rogue sprinkled parmesan onto her dish.
EIGHT
