Chapter 10
TEN
THE MASKED MAN
Walk away.
Walk away.
Walk away.
My alpha snarled, chained and beaten into submission in the bowels of my worst impulses. Every step that parted me from Max stretched my skin until it tore, pulling on those chains till the steel creaked and groaned.
I wasn’t sure how long the links would hold.
Drawing and quartering was probably a more humane method of torture compared to being forced to leave my unclaimed mate behind, all alone and still smelling like himself instead of me.
Instead of us.
But God had he smelled perfect. When the stench of his fear finally settled and that wary curiosity came through, I could’ve devoured him whole. It reminded me of the first time I saw him, sweet and innocent and unafraid, and made me want to chase.
I shook my head. I should be muzzled.
Thankfully, I’d kept myself together and didn’t frighten the poor thing even more, but I wasn’t sure that control would last for a second meeting. Hopefully by then he’d be more amenable to my proposed solution to this madness.
My alpha whined. The finality of rejection would hurt even worse than this current torment, but it was the only way.
Walking away from Max that night stole everything from me.
I’d completely stopped hunting in the two years since. Mainly because my body was unstable and unpredictable, which was a death sentence in my line of work.
But also because the suppressants didn’t just dull my rut-related symptoms and senses, but everything else, too. It was like going through life with a blanket thrown over my head, so I only felt half of myself.
Half of my joy, pleasure, sadness, peace—gone.
I needed my life back. I needed my freedom back. Max was right—I resented this bond. Not only for what it took, but also because it tied me to someone who would never want me in return.
No matter how much I wanted him.
A fierce headache pulsed across my forehead, wrapping around and around like a rubber band, squeezing tighter the farther away I walked. Sweat poured down my back, and the second I made it to the car, I shut the door and yanked off the mask before chugging half a bottle of water in one go.
It didn’t help.
I focused on the calm, steady breathing pattern the rut specialist taught me, trying to center myself in the moment rather than give in to the urge to run back to him.
Before that fateful night, things like breath work and meditation and mindfulness all sounded like made-up shit for people looking to make life more complicated.
Now, I practiced them daily. My pride, along with everything else, took a back seat when it came to avoiding the urge to rip off my own skin because I hadn’t scented my mate in days. Weeks. Months.
Years.
When the black dots cleared from my vision and it was safe to drive, I started up the car and headed home.
The route from Max’s apartment was familiar.
In fact, I could probably do it blind. Through Plover Bay I went, turning onto the far less populated road that circled to the west side of the bay.
Winding through the thick brush, it usually took half an hour till the pavement ended and I pulled off onto a gravel drive.
Tonight, I turned it into twenty minutes.
I was stupid to think I could handle myself without extra medication. I’d deeply underestimated the effect it would have on me to scent him, to be in the same room as him.
For the first time in two years, he was within my grasp, and I’d walked away.
Again.
Leaving was only possible because of the suppressants. Not only did they dull the headaches, shakes, vomiting, and light-headedness that came with an unfulfilled rut, but also the incessant urge for him.
It was non-stop. What was he doing? Who was he talking to? Was he happy? Safe? Hydrated? Had he slept well the night before? Did he invite someone over to spend the night? Did he want them?
Would he ever want me?
My doctor said those thoughts weren’t what a healthy rut felt like.
Which, thank God, because if half the population wandered around this psychotic over another person, there’d be way more problems in the world. He said once the bond was either sealed or broken, all of that would settle into something far more manageable.
I really fucking hoped so.
I understood why Max didn’t trust me—I wouldn’t trust me, either. I also understood why the idea of a mate like me was completely out of the question for someone like him, someone bright and made to live life out in the open, to the fullest.
Even on my best days, I couldn’t give him that.
And I really had tried everything the rut specialist recommended before going to him. Breaking the bond was my last option, and if he didn’t agree…
I shook my head. I hoped he would, and soon. The doctor’s warning echoed in my head.
The suppressants are damaging your organs. Your liver enzymes have been elevated for too long. Any more, and the effects will be irreversible. Eventually, fatal. I’m sorry it’s come to this, but you need to address the root cause.
What the fuck was I supposed to do when the root cause was a bespeckled blonde whose freckles only appeared in the sun? How did I fix this when the solution was mating with a man who smelled like a bakery and ran away screaming when he saw me?
What exactly had his words been? Oh, yeah. Should I be falling all over myself for a psycho who crawls through people’s windows at night?
Of course it fucking stung, but he hadn’t chosen this. He hadn’t chosen me.
And he wasn’t wrong. I deserved it—especially for what I was about to do.
Pulling into my drive, my headlights were the only light source for half a mile at least. This side of the bay was far less populated. I was the only permanent resident in the area, but even if the neighbors had been home, I wouldn’t be able to see them.
Trees lined the large property, offering privacy from the road only to fall away at the sheer cliff that dropped off into the water below. There was no beach here, only Lake Superior’s waves slamming up against the earth.
The house itself was stunning. All warm pine and natural features, the midcentury modern home sprawled atop the cliff overlooking the bay, its low profile almost blending into the natural lines of the shore.
I parked in the garage and hurried inside. An interior decorator had done a good job of making the home feel lived in. The house stayed true to the midcentury modern style, with lots of cream furniture and pops of color to make it warm and cozy.
I rarely enjoyed it. The view I wanted wasn’t in my living room.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched along the entire lake-facing side of the house, even into the bedroom. I was sure the original architect imagined families curled up, watching the lake dance on beautiful summer days and gales blow in over the water on long winter nights.
Those things were nice, but they weren’t why I’d finally spent my father’s money on this giant, lake-front property two years ago.
I didn’t bother turning on the lights as I walked through the kitchen and down the hall, and I didn’t stop for my suppressants, either. I wanted to feel as much as I could for a little bit longer, before I had to empty myself again.
Shucking off my clothes in the laundry room, I threw on a pair of joggers, grabbed the sealed zip-lock bag from my backpack, and crashed into my favorite chair, pulled right up to the glass.
My binoculars sat on the side table, at the ready.
I took a deep breath and held them up to my face, adjusting the focus.
Lightning cracked in my veins.
Max’s bedroom lamp was still on. Curled under the duvet, the glow of his phone illuminated his lightly freckled face. His hair was all askew, like he’d pushed it off his forehead one too many times until it dried that way.
He did that a lot. I’d spent countless hours imagining it was my fingers running through his silky hair, instead.
My chest relaxed at seeing him safe and sound, the tension that’d built up from the half hour he was out of my sight melting away. I was still stretched thin, aching for him so acutely I could almost reach across the lake and touch him, but seeing him soothed me enough to get by.
Max set his phone aside and stared at the ceiling. Was he thinking about me?
I liked to imagine he was, just so I wasn’t alone in this burning desire. Sometimes, he stayed up and stared out at the lake for hours, late into the night. On those evenings I turned on the lamp in my bedroom, too, so he’d know he wasn’t the only one sleepless and lonely.
Tonight, though, was for the shadows.
I knew this was fucked up. So, so fucked up. But in the grand scheme of things that came alongside accidentally bonding with someone you could never have, this was pretty minor.
Right?
Briefly looking away from Max, I picked up the ziplock bag. This was something I hadn’t done before, and it took my obsession to a level I’d regret when the post-nut clarity hit.
But the temptation was too strong.
I’d spotted Max’s dirty boxers draped over the side of the hamper in my frantic flight from his room. On impulse, I reached out and snagged them before shoving myself through the window, barely escaping the clawing reach of his territorial demon cat.
In any other circumstance I’d respect a worthy opponent, but I’d rather not have to nurse the scratches.
Zip-lock bags were useful for so many reasons; I always kept some in my car, just in case a need arose. Tonight, it was to preserve the freshness of his scent until I returned home to my view and some goddamn privacy.
Bracing myself, I palmed my cock through the thin jersey material. I was already hard from the prospect of what I was about to do, and a sizable bulge tented my gray sweatpants.
I cracked the bag open, and his scent hit me like a wall. My alpha snarled, spittle flying everywhere as it strained against the ever-weakening chains holding it back.
Hands trembling, I pulled the boxers from the plastic, buried my face right where his scent was most concentrated, and inhaled.
Sweat.
Skin.
Laundry detergent.