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That… might’ve been the wrong thing to say.
Ryker’s head snaps up. “Like hell I didn’t. You marked me. They’re mine.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.” How to explain? “I always thought you were holding those scars over my head for what I did to you. I don’t know… like you used silver to make sure they stayed so you could remind me I lost control.”
A spark of recognition lights up his shadowed face. “You thought they were battle scars.”
I did.
It’s an alpha thing. On the occasion that one puts on a show of dominance over another, whether it’s a challenge to lead the pack or to claim a mate, there’s usually a bitter battle. Sometimes fatal, always bloodthirsty, the only marks I’ve ever seen left on a shifter came from a fight—or their mating nights.
If I accept Ryker as my mate, he’ll bite me. That’s what we do. He’ll leave his mark on my skin, warning every other male that I’m taken.
And if Ryker accepts me as his mate, it works the same way. If I mark him—whether with my fangs or my claws—the mark would stay, a clear sign that he’s been taken by another wolf.
A year later, the five puncture wounds from when I threatened to rip out his heart are still there.
They could be battle scars. I’m an alpha who was seconds away from delivering a fatal blow to him. They could be—but they’re not, are they?
“Ryker—”
“They’re not battle scars.”
No. They’re not.
“But why?”
“You've always been mine, Gemma. I was just waiting for you to realize that. Then, and only when you accept me in return because you want to, will I take you as my bonded mate. Because once I do? There’s no going back.”
He’s not wrong.
Once a shifter takes a bonded mate, it’s ‘til death do you part with no way out.
I learned a long time ago that supes don’t do divorce. If I mate him, even in the heat of the moment, I’ll be stuck with Ryker for the rest of my very long life.
His pained expression softens. “Shit. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t.” Luna knows what I look like to make him think so, but I’m not scared. Not of him, or when I’m with him.
But I am thinking about what he just said.
Clearing my throat, I scoot out of his reach. When did I get so close? “Um. Maybe I’ll go sit over there again.”
He exhales roughly. “Yeah. I think that’s a good idea.”
* * *
Since mating’soff the table and we’re planning on being locked down here until the full moon loses her hold on us, we eventually come to an agreement. I’m going to stay on the far side of the basement, Ryker’s going to stubbornly hold tight to his chains, and we can revisit the whole “mate” issue when the pull of the Luna isn’t working against us.
It’s a good plan. I know that, come morning, I’d only regret mating him tonight. Sleeping with Ryker is one thing. I spent more than ten years wondering what it would be like to have sex with him, and if it surpassed my wildest expectations, the upside was that there were no strings attached. It was a mating, but we weren’t mates. I could live with that.
But with the moon out and Ryker’s confession that he consciously accepted our bond the night I left the pack—otherwise he never could’ve kept my claw marks on his chest—I finally understand why he seemed so convinced that we were this close to completing our bond. On his side, at least, he chose me, he accepted my mark, and the moon blessed our mating when she made me Ryker’s intended. If we mate down here, all it will take is him marking me and that’s it. We’re bonded for life.
A year ago, that’s all I wanted.
Then again, a year ago, I didn’t know there was a world out there where I could be Gem. Not Omega Gem. Not Alpha Gem. Just plain ol’ Gemma Swann. I sling whiskey and I roll my eyes at the barhounds’ outrageous attempts at flirting and I like it.
Now? now I’m stuck in Ryker Wolfson’s basement, the moon doing a number on the both of us, and I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do.
