Isabelle Slate had gone her whole life looking forward to finding her mate- the one who'd look after her, love her, and protect her. But when she's matched with the most narcissistic, possessive, gorgeous, and powerful Alpha in the whole Southern Pa...
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Staring into the vanity mirror, I finish the last part of my right Dutch braid and tie it off with a ponytail. In the reflection, I watch Jaxon's chest slowly rise and fall as he peacefully sleeps. Uncertainty floods through me as I look at him— what is happening?
Do I forgive him for what he's done to me? Absolutely not. Maybe one day I can, but it's too fresh, too messy, and too unforgivable to even think about absolution.
So, your next question is probably: "Then why is he in your bed?"
Also a confusing story.
Ever since the induction, the mate pull has been stronger than ever. I've noticed that, now, Jaxon doesn't like to be away from me for very long, and I often feel the same way even though the rational part of me fears him.
He's been so attentive— too attentive for my taste. That's why I'm up at the crack of dawn— to get some alone time.
Jaxon shifts on the bed, a small groan leaving his lips. I better go before he notices the absence of my presence. I quickly exit the room, down the stairs, and out the front door of the cottage. Strangely enough, Jaxon agreed to stay here instead of forcing me to live in the pack house. I guess the bond is causing him to be more lenient— in living quarters, at least.
Jaxon's possessiveness, however, has amplified by 150%. I can barely talk or look at Grant without Jaxon throwing a tantrum.
I don't know what the future holds, for sure, but I'm on the fence about whether Jaxon should be in it— romantically, that is. It doesn't matter what I do now, the bond has, well, bonded me to him now. I'm stuck with him.
I near the salt line, breathing in the crisp air of the morning as I go. I walk down beside the thick layer of salt, careful not to interfere with it in any way.
"Hello, Luna," A sudden voice startles me and I whirl around. Alpha Hayes of Mistletoe stands a few yards from me, a bundle of sage in his hand with wisps of smoke rising from it.
