Chapter 10
TEN
ROGUE
There was no TV show or movie on the planet that could distract me from the nightmare on my phone right now.
She was upstairs— my scent match was upstairs.
And he was… Fuck.
I turned the TV up, trying to focus on it. Going up there, showing him that I cared—it would do nothing but get her hurt.
More hurt.
What if she’s not hurt at all? What if she is begging for him?
That picture hadn’t looked like begging.
Right?
But would I rather she was miserable?
I fucking hated myself.
Her cheeks had been flushed, and the gun had been glistening…
I shouldn’t have stared so fucking long, it had screwed with my brain.
She wasn’t my business.
Keep my hormones in check. Keep my reactions in check. Don’t let him know how much I cared.
Yet, I couldn’t drag my mind from the picture—my brink-of-feral fucking hindbrain was restless.
Knox was pure fucking evil, but if I jerked off to that photo, Satan would manifest in my room right now to fast track me to hell.
So of course, I ended up in a cold shower that wasn’t doing its fucking job.
Whatever.
I was going to hell, anyway.
And it wasn’t like she would ever be allowed to meet me.
I was cracking—one week out of a rut I hadn’t burned through properly, with a muzzle still strapped to my face, and the creeping threat that always lurked, tightening its hold on me. I was never more than two steps from going completely feral, and that was my fucking scent match up there.
I slammed my forehead into the hard shower wall, trying to contain my fury, then snarled, pain shooting through my jaw as the movement caught the muzzle.
There were so many goddamned urges in my head.
Smashing his door down and snapping his fucking neck for touching her.
My fist balled, breathing heavy.
I wanted her.
I wanted her more than I’d wanted anything in recent memory.
I wasn’t allowed to want.
But for what? To… to protect her?
From him?
From me?
To rip her from his arms so I could… could what?
The imaginings spiralled, the icy water circling the drain at my feet as I slammed my fist into the dented metal wall of the shower.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
I wanted to think about breaking him , not… not her.
But she was so fucking small.
Small and… way too cute for the life we lived. A growl of frustration slipped out, and I tried not to picture those delicate hands pressed to my chest.
It would never happen. Knox would never let it happen?—
“Fuck.” Another growl ripped from my throat as I pounded the shower wall again.
I was gonna lose it and he’d put me back in the cage.
A white summer dress, none of lace and jewels marking her an object to be sold. The sun on her skin, a smile on her face.
What would that look like?
Oh, come on…
Don’t.
This would make me a grade A piece of shit.
But there was no way throwing fists at broken down punching bags in the room next door would relieve this.
I was a half feral Alpha who’d just had my scent match ripped from me. I didn’t have the luxury of dreaming what it might be like to draw her close. To wonder what it felt like to hold her.
Sweetness opened up an abyss, and I lived with instincts ready to incinerate anything not crusted in scabbed armour.
So, it was dreaming of ripping Knox in two. Or… Or her.
I didn’t want to think about her.
Not the picture he’d sent.
But could I keep it to just her?
Thistle.
Dark hair, captivating violet eyes with such capacity for fury and claim like I’d seen on that stage…
Mine.
My mate .
That word still sent the world spinning, and my hindbrain took over. I tried to picture her reaching down, fists circling my cock as she dropped to her knees. Her dainty hands around it.
She was small.
Far too small for me.
I could cling to that. There was a groan in my chest as I pictured her lips struggling to wrap around it.
It was hard, imagining her like this—all… into me and happy, when all I’d seen was fear.
Don’t. Think. About. That.
Just…
I was close, speeding up, feeling the soap lather and my blood get hot. But the imaginings kept tumbling away like a tapestry with no support.
Come on.
Come fucking on.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying again to focus on her tiny frame, dragging up image after image, but none were right.
Knox’s picture flashed in my mind… The way her cheeks were flushed, lips drawn back, teeth clenched as he’d pressed the gun into her, and it was so fucking covered in slick. There had been a strain in her neck as if she was fighting her own climax…
No… No, no, no.
Back to sunlight and smiles and shit.
Instead, my foul mind dragged up the image again—I growled as the most vicious orgasm I’d ever felt crashed in, and ropes of cum painted the wall as I panted, blood roaring in my ears.
And it had barely fucking worked, a scratch on the surface of the brewing storm of fury I had to find a way to manage.
But if I didn’t, I would put her in danger.
I slammed my forehead (and muzzle) into my forearm, pressing it to the shower wall as disgust swallowed me whole.
Her scent match was supposed to protect her, but instead of storming up there, putting a bullet in Knox’s skull, and wiping away her tears, I was jerking off to them instead.
Just… brilliant.
When I got out, I dried my hair and wrapped a towel around myself, then turned on the copper taps and splashed cold water over my face as if that would help.
I straightened, staring into the blurred reflection of myself in the huge, foggy mirror.
The bathroom was more outdated than the rest of the mansion, but it was still a luxury—if only because nothing (except the cell next door) wasn’t.
There was a massive jet bathtub I never used, tarnished brass fixtures, and marble counters with small cracks running through them. The siding was made of tiling that had, in places, been smashed during my violent outbursts. It was why the shower had been stripped to a concrete box.
I glanced at my phone that rested on the counter as it lit up with a text.
I picked it up and stepped into my bedroom, about to toss it onto the bed.
It was cooler out here, and I took a breath, trying to steady myself. The room had a bland, half-hearted attempt at a ‘stylish industrial’ theme, though the design had more to do with practicality—since the basement’s original purpose had a lot more to do with the Alpha cage next door than it did style points. This was one of the only rooms down here with hardwood flooring laid over the concrete, but the walls were still dusty, exposed brickwork.
I sat down on the bed, turning my phone over in my hand, fighting a losing battle against my impulses.
If I thought nothing could make this worse, I was sorely wrong.
Knox: Want to see her right now?
The picture he sent this time was peaceful—serene, even—if you ignored the hunch to Thistle’s shoulders and how tightly her eyes were squeezed shut. She was curled up in his bed, and I could see his arm around her in the corner of the photo. Against her chest she clutched a bunny toy, and there was a glittering tear upon its ear that had escaped her eyes.
Knox: after she tried putting that gun to my head, I told her I would give you the option of taking her punishment.
Knox: She refused.
I stared at the picture and the words for an age before I let out a growl and drove my fist into the ragged bricks already coming to pieces along my bedroom wall.
I knew the truth from that picture.
She was… sweet. Gentle. Probably broken from Ace. Frightened by Knox.
She had a mate who couldn’t save her.
Worse, though, she would run from me the moment she learned she was matched to a great fucking monster.