Page 5 of Kidnapped Rejected Mate
In my room, I close the door and let out a long breath. Immediately after, my stomach growls loudly, reminding me that my mother insisted we didn’t need breakfast—and only a granola bar for lunch.
Crossing the room, I open the bottom drawer of my dresser, pulling out several fig bars, an apple, a little box of cereal, and a candy bar. I sit on the floor and eat all of it, stillfeeling hungry when I’m done, but knowing I don’t have much time until she’s knocking on my door, insisting it’s time to go, or that she wants a say in how I do my makeup.
Taking all the wrappers, I ball them up as small as I can and stuff them in the bottom of my trash can. I’m just pulling some tissues from the box to hide them when something tugs at my chest, hard.
An urge. A summons.
I turn and look out the sliding glass doors leading to my balcony, my eyes landing on the ridge in the distance. For a few minutes, I stare at it, the tug in my chest willing me out there.
Just like it did all those years ago. And like it has, periodically, ever since that day.
I’ve managed to avoid the feeling, to ignore it, but recently it’s been getting stronger and stronger.
Five minutes later, when my mom knocks on the door, I’ve stuffed myself into the dress and have on the plain black flats she likes me to wear.
“Oh,” she says, tilting her head and looking me up and down. “I’d thought maybe you’d be a little less bloated today.”
Adrenaline blows through me, the thought that she might stride into my room and find the wrappers. Figure out that I’ve been feeding myself outside of what she knows about.
“I think my period might be starting,” I say, then realize that’s not the right thing to make her happy. She’s still hoping that I might spontaneously get pregnant, despite her constant reminders to me that a bastard would not look good for the family.
It’s not like I’m just gnawing at the bars of my enclosure to touch Caspian. I’ve already told him I want to wait formarriage, and the idea of having to go through with it on that night makes me sick to my stomach.
“Hmm,” is all Mom says before reaching out and taking my arm, tugging me down the hall and toward the front of the house. “Come on, we don’t want to leave everyone waiting.”
When we climb into the car, I try not to think about seeing Caspian again tonight. The way he’ll smile and try to slip his hand under the hem of my dress at the table. The discomfort he’ll force on me with his comments.
How, last time I went out to eat with my family, he followed me to the bathroom and pressed his hot, slobbery mouth against mine until I choked.
I try not to think about that, and I try not to think about the wedding dress I’ll have to wear to the wedding I don’t want to attend. I’ll try not to think about how this dinner is supposed to celebrate my mother hiring a designer, things coming along, the event hurtling toward me with a speed I can no longer ignore.
And the fact that there’s only one man I really want to marry, and that chance evaporated a long, long time ago.
Chapter 3 - Soren
“Soren! Care to fetch me a glass of water?”
“Already got it, Gramps.” I round the corner of his recliner and set the glass on the table next to him, then settle in on his bed, facing him. His room is small, with just a leather chair, a small TV in the corner, and some photos I found of him and Gran hanging on the wall. He tells me every day that it’s much better than the caves he had to sleep in while fighting for the pre-Sorel supreme, so it’s fine.
He’s been like that a lot lately. Telling more stories than usual.
Though the room is small, it’s littered with relics from his life, many of the objects belonging to Gran. Some of her dresses even hang in the closet alongside his clothes, like he can’t stand to part with them.
Once, when I was a kid, he told me that though most people don’t believe in it, he’d always known he and Gran were fated. A special kind of connection that rises above choice.
“Determined by the gods,” he’d said, whispering it to me while Gran hummed as she stirred a pot of soup on the stove.
We weren’t wealthy—we lived off of what Gramps could make from his hunting trips, while Gran earned money from mending and tailoring clothes. But we’d had enough, even if plenty of other families in the pack looked down on us.
“You’re always thinking ahead,” Gramps says now, breaking me out of my thoughts. He takes a sip of water and takes great care to return the glass to the side table without dropping or jostling it.
His hands shake a lot, but I don’t know if that’s just from age or from him being sick. Maybe it’s from both. He told me once that the moment Gran died, his body started to give up, too.
“Now,” he says, “I just wish you’d do that when it comes to your future—”
I have to bite my tongue to keep from groaning. Somehow, Gramps was aware that Xeran was planning to make another unit at the firehouse. He thought thatIshould fight for the position, take some leadership. But Xeran picked Felix for the role.
“I trust Xeran’s leadership,” I say, running a hand through my hair, even though I know it just makes the curls frizzy and more tangled. “He chose Felix. It’s probably got something to do with keeping morale high. You know how Felix is, always telling a joke. I think that’s what we need right now, more than how I would lead.”
