The only bit of movement came from the floor, where one of the men slammed his fist into—oh, into my buyer’s chest and stomach, each dull smack making the vile alpha’s body jerk. Whoever the man beating him was, he’d already made a mess of my buyer’s face. I could barely make out his refined features under all the blood. But I knew it was him. I knew his clothes, his hair, his build. I knew those perfectly uncalloused fingers that curled into callous fists to imprint cruelty and pain on my body.
I held my middle tighter, unable to look away from the wild fury of the man beating up my abuser. Every smack, every brutalpunch, every crack of ribs, every bruise that would stain the bastard’s body until it looked like mine… they touched the part of my soul that was sobbing and screaming and mourning the protection of my mate.
I dragged my glare to Sweetie as if to saythat’s what you should be doing. You should be the one battering my abuser.The woman hugging him stared from his face to mine, and it was like looking into a mirror—the shock, the pain that dug its spikes into me until there was no part left damaged.
“What?” I didn’t hear her speak, but I saw her mouth form the word. And I realised with a bitter laugh—she was his. My mate was hers. Her boyfriend or husband or whatever. He lovedher.That was why he rejected me.
My upper lip curled, and I dragged my stare to the floor, where it ended up on my buyer. I never learned his name; he’d never volunteered it, never asked me to call him anything at all. I usually called him bastard or motherfucker or coward who gets off on beating women. None of them bothered him exceptsad little man.That one earned me a brutal beating, and fucked with my ankle until I couldn’t put all my weight on it without shooting pains.
“I’m not your mate.”
I was too shocked to laugh, but I’d hadenough.That was my final fucking straw. So many places on my body stabbed with throbbing pain, I’d been ripped away from my home and my family, and this man had the audacity to tell me the bond that hooked itself so deep into me that it was part of my DNA didn’t exist? Fuck that.
“You are,” I bit out. I jabbed my chest. “I can feel it. Here.”
Motherfucker.If I could rip out that bond, give it to his purple-haired paramour, and bond myself to the psycho beating the shit out of my abuser instead, I’d do it in a heartbeat. But we couldn’t choose our own mates. It was literallyfate.
I took a step, ready to talk some sense into him, or just ask him to get me the fuck out of this place, but then he growled. The bastard actuallygrowledat me, as if I’d done anything other than exist.
“I am not your mate. I have a fiancée and she’s perfect and I love her more than anything else in this godforsaken world.”
I stumbled back a step, then locked my legs into place, refusing to give up another step. Fuck him. You know what? Just absolutely fuckingfuckhim. Hisfiancéecould keep him. I wanted nothing to do with a man honour-bound to protect me who hadn’t even stopped for one damn second to tell me I was safe or ask if I was okay. His muscle-bound behemoth of a friend had the courtesy to do that at least, not that I’d believe a single word he said until I got home.
“I’m sorry,” Sweetie said, and only the fact that he clearly meant it stopped me running across the room to kick his balls. I ground my jaw, pressing my lips into a line to stop them shaking. “I know there’s a bond, but I’m not yours. I can never, and will never, be yours.”
A breathy laugh escaped me. At least he admitted the bond was there. It did nothing to ease the spikes of rejection carving me apart, did nothing to stop my stomach twisting or the pain that stole my breath. I should have known fairy tales and perfect mates didn’t exist. I should have known the world would fuck me over.
His fiancée backed up, and then fled through the open door, tears in her eyes that might have made my heart pang in sympathy if I could feel anything through the shattered mess in my chest. Yeah, this fucking sucked for all of us. Why would the universe give me a mate already in love with another woman? How was thiseversupposed to end well?
I didn’t bother speaking. Didn’t want to waste the air on Sweetie when he hadn’t earned it. My omega instincts weresharp and bruised, and I knew they were the reason I was so angry and Sweetie didn’tentirelydeserve it, but I just ground my teeth and watched him run away.
“Don’t you dare fucking leave,” the psycho who beat my abuser snarled, so suddenly that I jumped, staring at him. “Don’t you fucking dare!”
I massaged a violent ache in my chest and drawled, “I don’t think he values your opinion much.”
Given Sweetie had fled the entire apartment, and there was no longer any sign of him. The whole thing had taken five minutes, from my locked door opening to my mate abandoning me.
I ground my teeth together, pushing back tears, holding myself together. I needed a fucking drink. But mostly I needed to go home.
“I don’t suppose one of you will give me a lift home, will you?” I asked, ignoring the tight, strangled quality of my voice.
A ruggedly handsome red-haired man took a step toward me and sighed, sympathy radiating from him in waves. So did a powerful dose of alpha vibes—pigheadedness, protectiveness, and stupidity usually. Often cruel violence, narcissism, and depravity. I wondered which alpha type this one would be as I levelled him with an unimpressed stare.
“Sweetheart, this is bigger than just that fucker.” He jabbed a finger at my buyer. “He’s part of a bigger network, and until they’re dealt with, you’re in constant danger of being hurt again. It’s better if you come stay with us, where you’re protected. But we can bring your family in—”
I stepped towards him, and smiled. Not sweetly. With all my teeth. “I’m not your sweetheart. And get out of my fucking way, I’m going home.”
I shoved him aside and aimed for the doorway.
2
Miraya
I’d seen the outside of my buyer’s apartment in Liverpool once, when he and one of the auction staff dragged me out of the back of a white van in the dead of night. They muscled me down this pristine, gallery-looking hallway, past white walls and paintings I was sure were worth more than all the money I’d seen in my life. I’d fought like hell, but it hadn’t been enough. The auctioneers sent their burliest, cruellest man to help my buyer lock me up, and nothing I did earned me freedom.
Seeing it again gave me a surge of complicated feelings and a sickly roil in my belly.
I was free now, marching towards the exit where I could find a way home, and no one would lock me up again (because I was going to buy a knife, pepper spray, a taser, a rape alarm, and a fucking gun if I could figure out where to source one.)
