Chapter 41
chapter
forty-one
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
After two days of listening to the memory of Serena’s gratitude swirling through my brain, all I wanted was to give her more . When I saw Jonah’s game coming up on the calendar and remembered Avery’s comment about taking Serena shopping somewhere nice, I figured this might be an opportunity.
Across the back seat of our limo, Serena fidgets with her dress, pulling at the hem discreetly. She’s graceful, even when she’s clearly agitat ed.
Keeping our bond closed is becoming more painful by the day. Especially as she’s gotten quieter.
She no longer seems terrified when I walk into the room. Just… frosty .
Going to the gym with Avery seems to have unlocked something in her. She’s suppressing it, but I still catch glimpses of its sharp edges. The heat and bitterness burning through her middle.
I watch the way she avoids my gaze, a realization sinking in. “You’re angry with me.”
The words are a revelation. And a relief .
God, I’ve wanted her to be angry this whole time. What I did to her was unconscionable . I deserve for her to hate me.
Her pretty features pucker. “I’m not angry.”
But she is . I can feel it, seething in her stomach. Layered with uneasiness and maybe even guilt?
I want to grit my teeth and snarl. What the hell could she possibly have to feel guilty about?
When she brushes her hands over the front of her dress, I realize—she doesn’t think she deserves to be angry.
A sick twist impales my stomach.
“Serena.” I wait for her to look over at me. Falling into those luminous green eyes, I urge her, “You should be angry.”
Which is when it occurs to me—she never has been.
Not when my teeth sank into her perfect throat. Not when she woke up on that cold metal table. Not that first night when I had to tend my mark or I’d go insane.
She’s never even raised her voice to me.
Because she doesn’t think enough of herself to believe she has the right to.
I don’t know what’s changed in the last week, but it’s clear she’s struggling with it. Perhaps Avery taking her to the gym has helped her move past her initial block, and now she doesn’t know how to seal the fury back up.
Good .
She shouldn’t .
“Tell me,” I order, low and soft. “Tell me how much you hate me.”
I must be some kind of fucked-up masochist because I really want her to.
If she punishes me, maybe I won’t have to keep punishing myself. But she doesn’t make it easy.
“No,” she huffs. “I don’t hate you. You brought me here and gave me everything you possibly could. You and your pack are my?—”
Mates .
It’s true.
But it doesn’t excuse what happened that night. “I should have courted you,” I growl. “Properly, the way you deserve. I had no right to even touch you, let alone bond you.”
She’s so stiff, it looks like she’ll crumble. And inside she’s… hollow.
“It wasn’t your fault,” she repeats. “It was only a matter of time. With my perfume being so messed up… and I could never control it. If I hadn’t perfumed you wouldn’t have snapped like that.”
The words coming out of her mouth aren’t hers. It’s clearly a bunch of shit she was force-fed for years. Removing any and all culpability from the alphas who wanted to prey on her. Because she was “too” sweet-smelling and “too” sexy.
When, really, they were too weak .
I’ll always hate myself for being one of them. She deserves so much more than carrying shame for things that were never her fault.
Things that, really, shouldn’t be shameful at all.
“It is our fault,” I argue. “Alphas… we’re the shameful ones, gaslighting omegas out of the workforce and their educations. Telling you it’s your fault we can’t be trusted around you. It’s fucked up and inexcusable and exactly what I’ve spent my entire career combatting. ”
Serena goes entirely still, staring at me across the backseat of our hired car. When she finally moves, her eyes drop to her lap.
“I didn’t ask to be this way,” she murmurs. “I never would have chosen this.”
Fuck. My chest cramps as I reach for her hand, scooping her fingers into mine. “I know that,” I tell her. “But even if you had —that still doesn’t make what happened your fault. I should have had better control of myself before I walked in there.”
Every time I think back to that moment, I can’t fathom what came over me. I only remember looking into her eyes. And not being able to waste one more goddamn second not being with her.
She glances down at our hands, her expression pensive. “Maybe I am angry,” she finally whispers. “A little bit.” She flicks a timid expression at me—the same one she wore when I first saw her through the interrogation room door. “Does that make you mad?”
My heart heaves and twists, but I force my gaze to stay steady. Needing her to hear me. And believe .
“No,” I reply. “It makes me proud.”