My Mate Rejected Me, But the Feral Alpha Fought for Me (The Feral Alpha's Found Mate #3)

Chapter One The Marked Mate Wakes

Willa woke because Torren was trying very hard not to touch her.

This was, she had begun to understand, one of his least successful disciplines.

He could stand down at a gate while a man insulted him. He could throw a crossbowman from a ridge instead of tearing out his throat. He could hear Varric Stone speak of roads and offers and domestic upheaval without turning the snow red.

But lying beside Willa after marking her and not touching the mark?

Hopeless.

His fingers hovered near her throat.

She could feel them before they landed.

Not through air.

Through the mark.

The bond lay deep inside her now, no longer a bright unfinished thread tugging between them, but a rooted thing. A path. A second warmth under her ribs. Torren’s attention moved through it like a large dark wolf pacing near a hearth.

Willa kept her eyes closed and waited.

Torren’s fingers drifted closer.

Stopped.

Withdrew.

Returned.

Stopped again.

She lasted through perhaps four rounds of this before saying, “If you keep hovering like that, I am going to bite you.”

Torren went very still.

Then his breath moved against her hair.

“Do not make offers before breakfast.”

Her face warmed instantly.

The mark warmed too.

Worse, the bond carried his satisfaction at both.

Willa opened one eye.

“You are insufferable now.”

He lay on his side facing her, dark hair loose, beard rough, bare shoulder marked by firelight.

Morning had not yet fully reached the room.

The banked hearth painted him in low gold and shadow, all hard lines and watchful eyes and the kind of restraint that looked less convincing when she could feel exactly what lived underneath it.

His mouth almost moved.

“Only now?”

“More now.”

“The mark improved me.”

“The mark made you smug.”

“Same thing.”

She rolled onto her back and immediately understood two things.

First, Riksa had been right.

Her body was tired in places she had not known could vote independently.

Second, the mark was not simply sore.

It was alive.

It pulsed when she moved, a deep ache at the side of her throat, not unpleasant exactly, not painless, but heavy with meaning. Like a bruise left by lightning. Like a door in her skin had opened and forgotten how to close.

Torren’s attention sharpened.

“Pain?”

“Some.”

His hand curled on the fur beside her.

“Bad?”

“No.”

“Truth.”

Willa turned her head and looked at him.

“Truth.”

He held her gaze for a long moment.

The bond moved between them, searching, not doubting her exactly. Learning the new shape of honesty now that it could hear too much.

“You can feel when I ask badly,” she said.

His brows drew together.

“What?”

“You heard my answer. Then you listened under it.”

His face changed.

Barely.

Enough.

“I did not mean—”

“I know.” She touched his wrist. “I’m saying we need rules.”

His eyes darkened.

“Rules?”

“Yes.”

“Riksa will be unbearable if she hears that word.”

“Riksa is unbearable if she hears any word.”

His mouth almost moved.

The mark pulsed with his amusement, and Willa caught her breath.

Torren noticed that too.

Of course.

His gaze dropped to her throat.

Hunger moved through the bond.

Not as wild as last night.

No, that was a lie.

Just as wild.

Better fed.

More patient.

That might be worse.

“Rules,” Willa repeated, though her voice had gone less impressive.

Torren’s gaze lifted.

“Tell me.”

That steadied her.

Two words. Rough, simple, his.

Not command.

Invitation.

Willa breathed through the warmth of the mark and the ache of her body and the sight of him waiting beside her in the half-dark.

“If I say I am fine, you can ask once if I mean it. Once. Not with your eyes doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“That alpha thing.”

“I have many.”

“Yes. Unfortunately.”

His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist.

The touch went straight to the mark.

Willa’s breath caught again.

Torren stilled.

“Too much?”

“New.”

He drew his hand back.

She caught it before it went far.

“Not too much. New.”

He let her pull his hand back to her wrist.

“Rule two,” she said.

“There are numbers?”

“There are now.”

“Cruel marked woman.”

The words should have been teasing.

They were.

They were also not.

Marked woman moved through her differently from unmarked one. The phrase did not scrape. It settled.

Mine, the wolf inside her said, not of Torren, but of the words. Mine to wear.

Willa swallowed.

Torren felt the shift.

His eyes softened by almost nothing.

“Rule two,” he said.

She found her voice.

“If you feel fear from me through the mark, you do not get to decide what caused it without asking.”

His face went still.

There.

The harder rule.

“I can feel fear,” he said.

“I know.”

“Not every shape. Not every thought. But—”

“Enough.”

“Yes.”

She touched the mark with her free hand.

It beat warm beneath her fingers.

“I can feel yours too.”

His eyes closed.

For one breath, he looked pained.

Not by the mark.

By being known in a place he had spent years armoring.

Willa understood that better than he might think.

“I do not want to be guessed into a cage,” she said.

His eyes opened.

Black, immediate.

“No.”

“And I do not want to make one for you either.”

The bond went quiet.

Not empty.

Listening.

Torren rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling beams.

Willa let him.

That, too, might be a rule.

Let the difficult thing have air.

At last he said, “If I feel fear from you, I will want to move.”

“I know.”

“Fast.”

“I know.”

“If I feel pain—”

“Torren.”

His jaw flexed.

“I am telling you badly.”

Willa turned toward him, careful of the pull in her muscles, and propped herself on one elbow.

“Then keep telling me badly.”

He looked at her.

The mark warmed again, not from desire this time.

From recognition.

From the strange intimacy of being allowed to be unfinished even after a bond had rooted.

“If I feel pain from you,” he said, “I will want to kill whatever caused it before I know what it is.”

“Yes.”

“That is not a good rule.”

“No.”

“But it is true.”

“Yes.”

His gaze dropped to her throat.

“The mark makes it worse.”

Willa considered the deep warmth under her ribs. The way Torren’s unease moved near hers without becoming hers unless she reached for it. The way his attention had become easier to find, harder to ignore.

“The mark makes it closer,” she said.

He went still.

She touched his chest.

“Not worse. Closer.”

His breath left him slowly.

“There is a difference.”

“Yes.”

A knock struck the door.

Willa closed her eyes.

“If that is Hessa, I am pretending to be dead.”

Torren’s mouth curved.

“She will make me carry you downstairs.”

“She told you not to carry me through the hall.”

“If you are pretending to be dead, she will call it transport.”

Willa laughed, then winced when the mark pulled.

Torren’s hand was there instantly.

Not on the mark.

Near it.

Waiting.

She took his wrist and put his fingers gently over the bite.

His entire body changed.

The bond dropped deep.

Willa gasped.

So did he.

Not loudly.

Enough.

His fingers lay over the mark as if touching a wound, a vow, and a miracle that might vanish if mishandled.

“New,” she whispered.

“Yes.”

The knock came again.

Riksa’s voice cut through the door. “If anyone is dead, say so. If no one is dead, drink the water I left outside before I come in and verify.”

Willa stared at the door.

Torren stared at Willa.

“She would,” Willa said.

“Yes.”

“We should drink the water.”

“Yes.”

Neither of them moved.

Riksa struck the door a third time.

“I can hear hesitation.”

Torren growled.

Willa began laughing again, softer this time, careful with the mark. Torren watched her as if her laughter still surprised him, as if he had not yet accepted that it could exist in his room and belong there.

Then he rose, wrapped a blanket around his waist with unnecessary menace, opened the door only far enough to retrieve the water tray, and closed it again before Riksa could get a foot inside.

“Rude,” Riksa said through the door.

“Alive,” Torren replied.

“Not the same as healthy.”

“Later.”

“Now.”

“Eating first,” Willa called.

Silence.

Then Riksa said, “Acceptable. Suspicious, but acceptable.”

Her footsteps retreated.

Torren returned with the tray.

Two cups. A pitcher. Bread. Cheese. Dried fruit.

“She left food too,” Willa said.

“Hessa.”

“Probably.”

He sat beside her on the bed and handed her water.

She drank because the alternative was Riksa returning with reinforcements.

The first swallow made her realize she was thirstier than she had known. The second made the mark pulse. The third made Torren’s gaze fix on her throat with such intensity that she lowered the cup and looked at him.

“Rule three.”

His eyes lifted slowly.

“There is a third.”

“You cannot stare at my throat while I am trying to drink unless you intend to explain yourself.”

His mouth almost moved.

“I intend many things.”

Heat moved through her.

“Torren.”

“I am explaining badly.”

“That was not explaining. That was threatening breakfast.”

He leaned closer.

“Your mark moves when you swallow.”

Her entire body warmed.

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“That explanation was not helpful.”

“It was accurate.”

“Worse.”

He smiled then.

Small.

Real.

So sudden and brief that she almost forgot the water in her hand.

Willa stared.

“There.”

The smile vanished halfway, not gone, but guarded by old habit.

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it keeps happening.”

“What?”

She reached out and touched the corner of his mouth.

“You.”

Torren caught her hand and kissed her palm.

The mark answered.

Morning threatened to become something else very quickly.

Then the gate horn sounded.

One short note.

Torren froze.

Willa’s body responded before she thought.

Heart up. Breath tight. Mark bright.

Torren felt it.

He looked at her.

For the first time since the mark, they had no room to pretend the bond was metaphor.

He had felt her fear as it happened.

She had felt his answer.

Not action.

Not yet.

A wolf lifting its head.

“Rule two,” she said.

His jaw flexed.

“Ask.”

“Good.”

His eyes held hers.

“Are you afraid because of the horn, because you are sore, because you think I will leave, or because you think I will not?”

Willa stared at him.

“That was alarmingly thorough.”

“I listened.”