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I glared at him, trying not to be impressed by how he looked. Like one of the sexy male perfume models in magazines, the ones that came with scratch and sniff panels. He was dressed in an honest-to-God three-piece suit, his red hair slicked back with some sort of hair gel. He arched an eyebrow at me, and I blinked to stop staring.
“I’ll earn my weapons and clothing there by working,” I snapped, dropping Brand’s arm. “And I don’t need jewelry.” I flicked my metal ear tag with my left hand. “I already have mine.”
A flicker of pain or rage flashed in his gaze, and he stepped close, leaning down to my ear. His musk and ginger scent swirled around my face as he whispered, “If you were mine, I would cover you in jewels. I would show you what a woman like you deserves, show the world your beauty.” While I was still frozen in shock, he inhaled deeply, like he was trying to fill his lungs with my scent, then stepped back.
I met his sharp green eyes, and before I could stop it, a question tumbled out. “But I’m not yours, am I? I’m not your mate. Your true mate.”
His jaw clenched so hard, the muscles of his jaw were outlined for a long moment. “No, Florida Wills. I am not your true mate, and you are not mine.” The air thickened with a bitter, acrid scent. He was lying. I knew it.
But he was doing something else, too. I slapped one hand over my heart, as a knife was plunged into my chest.
No. I looked down. There was no knife.
Gasping, I held my hand over the scar that was burning as if it were splitting open. I opened my mouth to beg him to stop, but he bared his teeth, and repeated himself. “I am not your true mate, Florida Wills, and you are not mine.”
The pain intensified, though the scent of deception dissipated as quickly as it had come. Somehow, that was worse. He wasn’t lying now, even if he had been before.
I whimpered at the feeling of something deep within me tearing. Finnick opened his mouth and drew a breath to speak again, and somehow, I knew when he did—if he repeated those words—everything would change.
Inside, my wolf howled.
“Finn,” I whispered, not sure what to say to keep him from saying those words a third time.
He was trembling, his eyes filled with something like regret. “I couldn’t be your mate, Flor. I wouldn’t ever make that mistake,” he finished at last, his own voice a rasp.
The words hit me, hard, but not like the others. This time, it was the understanding of why he was saying this to me. That I could never measure up. Never be worthy.
I managed to draw a breath to reply out loud. “Fuck you, Finnick. Fuck you all the way back to your fancy pack. I don’t care if I ever see you again. I hope I don’t!” I tasted my own lie, like aluminum in my mouth. Finnick’s nostrils flared as he smelled it. But he didn’t call me on it.
Inexplicably, his eyes shone for a moment, as if he were suppressing tears. Then, his jaw tightening even further, he gritted out a goodbye to Brand. Brand only growled back as Finnick turned and stalked away.
“He’s l-limping,” I stammered, wondering why I was so out of breath. Why it felt the exact same way as being held down and kicked in the gut. Like he’d been trying to break through my ribs with a few stupid words.
“Stupid fucker did it to himself,” Brand grumbled, his arm going around my shoulders. I leaned into him, my limbs aching almost as much as my gut did, my head spinning. “Don’t worry, little flower. He’ll pull his head out.”
“What?” Glen asked, coming up on my other side. He tucked a lock of hair behind my ear, then motioned to the waiting black SUV. Identical vehicles had been arriving all evening, and the Pack House was practically surrounded.
I glanced at Finnick’s back, then over at the Pack House, where I suspected Luke was watching from a curtained window. “Are we ready to go? I can’t wait to leave this pisshole forever.” I ignored the wary looks from the visiting shifters, and the whispers I heard as I walked to the SUV. I didn’t want to know what they were saying about me, and I didn’t care.
“We are.” Glen opened a door for me. “And you never have to come back, Flor. Not unless you decide you want to.”
I raised my voice. “I’d rather eat rats for another nineteen years, Glenda. Get me out of this place.”
“As you wish,” he replied gently.
Our driver followed behind a shifter ambulance carrying the Northern Alpha pair, and another two SUVs pulled in behind us. Brand was on my left, Glen on my right, and my future lay ahead.
At last, I was going to a place that wanted me. Where I wouldn’t be hunted, or scorned, or abused. I knew it wouldn’t be perfect, but it had to be better than Southern.
I had no reason to feel anything but joy.
But as the SUV turned the corner to head to the gates, and I craned my neck to see behind me, a vast, hollow space opened up inside me, and my eyes filled with tears.
A lean, dark-haired figure stood on the front porch of the Pack House, alone. And as he raised his hand to wave goodbye, it felt like I was leaving something vital behind.
Memories, perhaps. Or dreams.
Or even a part of my soul.
