Page 27 of Plus-Size Bullied Mate

It’s almost carnal in a way that has nothing to do with unseen mystical forces and everything to do with the fact that she looked at me in my living room and didn’t fawn over me even when it would’ve been easier. She shook with anger, said no, and held her chin up.

It caused something inside me that had been dormant for years to rise all over again, and that part still unnerves me more than I’d like to admit.

That urge to truly get to know her doesn’t make sense to me in a way, but whether it’s just normal attraction or some force bigger than myself, it doesn’t matter. I’m done going to every length just to block it out.

We both deserve better than that, even if she hates me. She might want to reject me, but I know even she can’t ignore that pull, regardless of how stubborn she is.

Tessa is already heading for the house with rigid shoulders when Mom finds me before I can make it to the tree line.

She cuts in front of me with the particular efficiency of a woman who raised an unpredictable child and has never once been deterred by inconvenience.

“A word, Hunter,” she says, keeping her voice low while the others move around us.

Her usual warmth and doting nature seem to vanish at once, and that’s exactly how I know this isn’t a request. alpha or not, I’m still her child regardless of my age.

With a nod, I walk with her as I already know where this is going. The community hall fades behind us, and the voices of the pack disperse into the trees.

Mom is small, just like she always has been, but she has a presence that fills whatever space she occupies, and it’s usually best to make sure it’s for more positive reasons. Right now, it feels deeply uncomfortable to stand next to her.

“I’m not going to say I didn’t see this coming, since you’ve always had a knack for making your own way, but Hunter,” She begins, halting her steps to look up at me with her hands folded in front of herself. She’s wearing the expression she gets right before saying something she believes is for my own good. “Think about what you’re doing.”

“I have. Extensively,” I say, forcing myself not to bend just because she’s my mom.

“Have you thought about her parents and what they did to your father? To me?”

“Yes, I have.” The words come out a bit bitter still, but I take a breath and force that usual stinging reminder aside. “It’s not exactly easy to forget.”

“And it doesn’t… give you pause? That you would choose the daughter of the people who got Daniel killed when you could have your pick of anyone else?”

The sound of his name hits the way it always does, even after all this time. Still, I absorb it without flinching.

“Tessa isn’t her parents, and she never has been. I don’t see why she should be punished for it,” I tell her, unwavering in my decision. “And this isn’t about choosing. It’s a feeling I haven’t been able to shake for a long time. This has hardly been cut and dry for me.”

At that, her expression just barely softens at the implication, but she immediately wars with herself. She gives a small shake of her head. “She carries their blood regardless.”

“And I carry my father’s, but that doesn’t make me him.” I keep my voice measured, but I try to smooth the edges for her sake. “I know how much pain their decision put you in, and I’m not asking you to forget it.”

Emotion reaches her eyes despite the sharp focus still in them. “Then what are you asking me to do?”

“Not to take it out on her anymore,” I say simply, certain that I’m only making the wound worse for her. “To see Tessa as her own person, and to give her a chance.”

The subtle tears in her eyes slip into the kind of quiet anger I rarely see from her. “You’re asking a lot of me, and I don’t think that’s fair.”

“It isn’t. None of it has been fair,” I agree, still able to feel the weight of everything we’ve been through together after Dad died. “Not to you, me, or a girl who’s been paying for something she didn’t do since she was a child.”

Mom is quiet for a long moment while the trees move around us, slow and melodic, while the afternoon gradually stretches. Then, she takes a small breath.

“You’ve been carrying this for a while,” she says, and it sounds more like an accusation than a statement.

I don’t answer immediately, since this is a door I’ve kept mostly closed; opening it requires the kind of vulnerability I’ve spent years, professionally and personally, trying to avoid. But for as hard as I tried, I can’t push it away forever.

“I know what I feel,” I say instead, “and I know that I’ve been running from it longer than I should have. It didn’t help either of us.”

She looks at me for a long moment, more like the way she used to when I was young and she was trying to decide whether I was just being stubborn or if she could trust my judgment.

“She hates you,” she says, not unkindly, but with certainty. “And this is going to be complicated.”

“I know,” I concede. “Most things worth doing are.”