Page 30 of The Alpha’s Unclaimed Mate

“There isn’t.” I find the knife and a fresh board. “One was a deadbeat father. The other turned into a deadbeat stepfather. Turns out I have a type.”

He goes still. “You were married, then.”

I glance down at my bare hand, at the pale band of skin where a ring never actually sat. “We were married on paper for six years, and he was a good man right up until he wasn’t.”

Marcus shifts closer, his voice dropping, careful. “So it was never a real marriage.”

“The place I worked back then was religious. Strict about things.” I start chopping because it gives my hands somewhere to go. “They didn’t think much of unwed mothers, so a friend put his name on the certificate to keep me employed. We stayed out of each other’s way, and somewhere in there, we turned into a sort of family. There wasn’t much choice about it.” The knife scrapes. “Then he showed me he was exactly what the first one was. Or maybe he was worse.” I pause for a moment.

“What did he do?”

“I didn’t know about his gambling addiction till I had creditors at my door and the bank foreclosing on the home that I had just bought. He left, and I spent the next couple of years rebuilding myself.”

“So you divorced him?” Marcus asks slowly.

I let out an angry laugh. “No. He divorced me. But not before he took half of what I had in court. He never even showed up, the fucking coward. His lawyer did.”

My hands tighten around the knife, suddenly irritated with myself for even revealing this much. I don’t know why I develop the gift of gab anytime I am around this man.

To my surprise, though, he doesn’t offer any comments. He doesn’t rush to fill the quiet with something useless, which I grudgingly respect. I rinse the knife and reach back into the fridge for the rest, shoving aside cartons and jars, coming up empty.

“You don’t have any chicken in here.”

“No.” He peeks over my shoulder before glancing at me. “But if you want one, I’ll grab one from the forest.”

I stare at him. “You’ll grab one from where, exactly?”

“The woods out back. Won’t take a minute.”

“There are chickens just running loose in your woods?”

“Give me a second.” And he’s out the kitchen door before I can get a word in to stop him.

I stand there holding a piece of celery, certain he’s messing with me, certain a grown man and former international athlete is not about to go poach poultry out of a forest because I mentioned soup.

Four minutes later, the door swings open, and Marcus walks back in with a dead chicken hanging from one fist.

The spoon I’d picked up clatters out of my hand onto the counter.

“Did you just—” I point at the bird, lost. “You went and caught a chicken? In the woods? Right now?”

“You said you needed one.” He hefts it, unbothered. “You want me to skin it, or do you handle that part?”

I keep staring at him, and he takes my silence for an answer.

“Okay.” He gives me a sheepish look. “I’ll clean it up and bring it over to you.”

He takes the thing to the far sink, and I cannot stop the film looping behind my eyes, this man strolling into the dark trees and coming back out with dinner in his hand. It’s the single most ridiculous thing I’ve witnessed in a life that has lately specialized in the ridiculous.

Ten minutes on, he’s at the sink rinsing a cleaned, skinned bird under the tap without a flicker of concern.

“Is this a normal thing for you?” I ask. “You just wander into the trees and grab a chicken whenever the mood strikes?”

“We don’t eat chicken much.” He works the water over it. “But if Bella ever wants some, that’s where it comes from.”

“If your fans could see you now.” I shake my head. “The great Marcus Steele, poaching hens behind his own house.”

He flashes me a grin over his shoulder. “They’d think I’m multi-talented.”