The Tyrant Alpha's Rejected Mate (Five Packs #1)(3)

A flash of heat crashes through me. It has to be at least ninety degrees in here, and behind Killian’s makeshift throne, the fire’s roaring. Why does no one open the windows?

Probably because the mated and protected females are perfectly comfortable. They’re allowed to wear short sleeves, and per usual, the males who aren’t wearing tank tops are bare-chested.

My wrist is so tired. I switch so I’m holding the tray in two hands. My palms are getting slick. It’d serve them right if I dropped the tray, and they’d have to go get their own damn beer. The folks at the far table are already casting me dirty looks—like why don’t I wade through the shifter fight?

Ugh. I press my legs tight together. Sweat is dribbling down my inner thighs and tickling the back of my knees. And my stomach’s doing something weird. Do I have a fever? I can’t get sick. I’ve got a mushroom deal in the works.

Fortunately, the match seems to be wrapping up. Ivo Bell is squatting and squinting between Tye and Lochlan’s entangled bodies. I’m not sure why he doesn’t call the match. Tye is howling at the ceiling in victory, and Lochlan’s face is beet red, fur sprouting from his collar. There’s definitely a winner and a loser, and if Ivo doesn’t call it, there’s gonna be a wolf fight in the great room.

I can’t stand here any longer. I need air. All this male musk is making me queasy. I’m gonna yak. I grip the tray and pick my way around them, praying Lochlan doesn’t break free at the very last second and topple me ass over tea kettle.

Luckily, I make it past them to where Killian’s lieutenants sit next to the dais. From the way everyone treats the table like sacred ground, you’d think it’d be special, but it’s like the others—worn laminate top, backless benches, wheels. The tables came with the building when the pack bought the property in the 80s and stopped living in dens.

“Took you long enough,” Finn Murphy gripes as he grabs a pitcher, knocking my hand as he helps himself. I set the tray down and unload it. I don’t bother to respond. I don’t talk to dicks.

“Get us some more.” Finn shoves an empty bread basket at me. He doesn’t meet my eye, just gnaws on a drumstick while he watches Tye help Lochlan off the floor.

“Bad call,” he grumbles under his breath. He’s just sore because he’s in cahoots with Lochlan. From where I was standing, Tye won without a doubt.

I snag the basket and turn to go. I’m going to “forget” about the bread and duck out the back. The sun is setting. There’ll probably be a breeze from the foothills. I can cool down.

I want to be outside so bad. The desire hits me so hard, it’s a longing. I need open sky. I want to breathe in the night air. I want to bask in the moonlight.

Mostly, I want out of these clothes. My bra straps are digging into my shoulders, and my khakis are damp and too damn tight. They must’ve shrunk in the wash. Or I’ve ended up wearing Annie’s again by accident.

I take a step toward the kitchen, but before I head back, I glance up at the dais. I have to. I’m called. It’s instinct even though no one said my name.

But there’s only Killian, staring at me.

Heat bursts from my core, surging down my limbs, leaving my toes and fingertips tingling. I hold onto the empty tray for dear life.

Why is he checking me out?

No, he’s got to be looking at the table behind me. He’s probably deciding who fights next. The sparring is incessant, at least until it gets late and drinking and groping take center stage.

There’s no need for me to linger here. I’m acting like he gave an alpha command, but he’s just scowling like usual. If I don’t move, he’s going to flick his hand imperiously to get out of the way like he does. Killian never deigns to speak if he can grunt and point. I don’t think he’s ever said an actual word to me.

I should hustle back to the kitchen as quickly as I can, but for some reason, I can’t make my feet move. I’m hyper-focused on the linoleum floor now, cheeks burning, stuck. Because his eyes are on me.

My heart thumps, echoing in my ears.

And there’s a new delicious aroma weaving through the usual beer and roast meat and other earthy pack smells. It teases my nose, warm and sweet and sticky in the best possible way. It’s not coming from the kitchen. It’s—I don’t know where it’s coming from.

The ache in my leg fades. There’s a pleasant buzz in my head now, softening everything. The constant grating ruckus of mealtime in the lodge fades—the fluorescent lights overhead, the shrill laughter of the females, and the braying of the males. It’s all muted. Like an old talkie movie in black and white.

I peek up out of the corner of my eye. Is Killian sitting taller? He’s still glaring, and his hard, almost craggy face has become thunderous. He’s pissed. That’s my cue to leave, but still—still—I can’t go.

He’s too freaking interesting. His chest rises and falls, stretching the crisp white cotton of his shirt, and it’s mesmerizing. What would it feel like against my cheek? Under my nails?

My claws?

I lick my dry lips. I can taste the yumminess in the air. It coats my tongue, and I’m salivating. It’s so. Damn. Tasty.

Am I drunk? I feel tipsy, but I only partake at the cabin with my girls. Lone females aren’t allowed to drink.

I inhale deeply, trying to shake off this weirdness, but now the lush, decadent scent is in my lungs. Excitement shoots through my veins, a flood of heat rising up and cresting, crashing through me.