CHAPTER FOUR

His grip tightened, and I gasped, chest rising sharply as his fingers tangled in my hair like he meant to rip out the memories along with the strands. Not from shock. Not just from pain.

It was the way it hurt, like he knew exactly how to twist the knife without drawing blood. The ache wasn’t just in my scalp. It was in my chest. My ribs. Somewhere deep I couldn't reach.

His breath grazed my skin. His scent, cedar smoke, hit me. And his eyes…

Those eyes didn’t just look at me. They burned through me.

“I’ll never forgive him,” he said, voice rough and cracked. “And I’ll never forgive you.”

He leaned in close, the heat of his breath brushing my lips. I saw the scar slicing through the stubble on his cheek, the way his jaw ticked like he was chewing on broken glass.

“You’ll carry his sins,” he whispered, soft but seething. “Until they break you.”

“I’m not him,” I said, voice shaking. “You punish me like I am, but I’m not.”

His fingers released my hair. Then he shoved me. Not hard enough to hurt, just enough to humiliate. The way his mouth twisted with disgust made it worse.

I stumbled, catching myself with one hand against the wall.

“Go on,” he snapped, eyes as cold as his tone. “Keep thinking your pretty little words mean anything.”

“I’m not trying to fix anything,” I said quietly, forcing the words out, throat raw. “But I feel it, Draven. The bond. You can deny it all you want, but I know you feel it too.”

His jaw clenched, a flick of muscle tightening beneath his skin.

And for a second, he looked away. Just enough to make something twist inside me.

“You don’t mean that,” I added, voice softer, unsure if I wanted to provoke him.

He turned his back, shoulders tight, fists clenched like he was holding something in with sheer force.

“You don’t get to tell me what I mean,” he muttered, voice low and bitter.

He was almost at the door when something inside me snapped loose, like a frayed wire giving way.

“I didn’t ask for this,” I said louder, stepping toward him. “You act like I owe you, like I had anything to do with what happened to your mother. But I was just a kid. I was left behind too, Draven. Just like you.”

He stilled, one hand frozen on the doorknob.

“I didn’t grow up in some warm house,” I said, voice cracking. “I didn’t get a schance to live the life i deserve. I got dumped in homes where strangers looked at me like broken glass. Cleaned up messes that weren’t mine. Got slapped for breathing too loud. And the whole time, I kept thinking maybe if someone remembered me, I wouldn’t have to keep surviving like I didn’t matter.”

He didn’t turn. But his shoulders shifted slightly, like he heard me even if he didn’t want to.

“I thought when you came back, it meant something.” My voice cracked again. “That maybe the bond meant something too.”

I stepped closer. The floor was cold beneath my feet, each step like walking toward a cliff with no edge.

“You want to hate me?” I whispered, breath shaking. “Fine. But ask yourself this. Do you really hate me, or do you hate the way I make you feel?”

Silence spread between us.

Then finally, he spoke. His voice was hard as steel.

“Get dressed,” he ordered.

I blinked back the burn in my eyes. “What?”

“You heard me.” He turned, face hard as carved stone. “You’re coming with me.”

“Where?” I asked, even though I knew I wouldn’t get a real answer.

His lip curled, just enough to cut. “Just do what I said.”

Thirty minutes later, I stood by the garage, arms crossed to hide the tremble in my fingers.

The top they gave me clung too tight across my chest, uncomfortable and exposing. The jeans had holes that felt more like a joke than fashion. One of the women had tossed them at me like I was trash to be dressed.

Draven walked out, helmet in hand. His black tank clung to every muscle, sweat still damp at his collar and tattoos sprawled down his arms. I stared at him, but he didn’t look at me.

“You’ll carry my drinks. Wipe the motorcycle. Keep your damn mouth shut,” he said, voice low and rough as his boots hit the pavement.

“You’re not my mate out here. You’re my maid.”

I swallowed the sting and nodded, keeping my face blank. If I argued, he’d enjoy it. If I cried, he’d win. So I endured everything for the bond.

The lot roared with engines and voices. Rows of bikes waited in the dark, each one black and dangerous.

Draven moved like thunder, all muscle and rage, his walk commanding. He didn’t look back once. He straddled the matte-black bike, silver claw marks scratched into the tank like battle scars. He revved once, the sound sharp enough to split the night in half.

I stepped forward, rag clutched to my chest like it could steady my heart. He glanced at me. Barely. Cold. Helmet down. Kickstand up.

Someone yelled, “Alpha Draven! Take him down!”

Another rev echoed through the lot as he lined up beside a man on a slick red machine, bigger, smirking.

I didn’t know the rules. But I knew the danger.

And I shouted, my voice breaking through the noise. “Go, Draven!”

I didn’t think he heard. But his helmet tilted slightly. Then the flag dropped.

He was gone in a blur of smoke and fury, tires screaming against the pavement. He didn’t race. He hunted.

Every turn, every lean was rage made motion.

And then, he crossed the line. Victory.

The crowd roared as he coasted back. Sweat clung to his brow. His eyes were dark and wild, searching for something. He found me. And without a word, he tossed the rag at my feet.

A man came up, beer in hand. Too close. Too bold.

“Your name?” he asked, eyes crawling over my face.

I looked up, heart pounding. “I’m not...”

Draven was there in a blink and grabbed the guy by the collar. He slammed him into the barrier, hard enough I felt it in my spine.

“She’s mine,” Draven growled.

The guy spat blood. “Didn't look like it.”

Draven didn’t blink. One punch. Then another. The guy dropped like a sack of meat.

Then he looked at me, face calm, cold, blood dripping from his knuckles.

“Next time, don’t let anyone get near you,” he said before walking away like it was nothing.

At the pack house, he parked the motorcycle. Helmet off. Silent.

I followed him in, heart heavy with something I couldn’t name. He poured whiskey. Didn’t look at me. Not until he did.

“You embarrassed me.”

“I didn’t...” I tried to explain, but he cut me off.

“You let him talk to you,” he raised his voice.

“He came to me, but I didn’t say anything,” I insisted.

“But you didn’t stop him either,” he hissed.

I stepped back instinctively, breath catching. “I’m not your enemy, Draven.”

He slammed the glass on the counter. “No. You’re worse.”

Then he was in front of me again. His hand gripped my arm, not to bruise, just enough to remind me I was trapped.

“I know how to handle enemies,” he said low. “I kill enemies.”

I couldn’t breathe. “Then what am I?”

His grip faltered. Just a little.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “And that’s why I hate you even more.”

Then he dropped my arm like I burned.

I stumbled back, chest tight. He turned away like I didn’t matter.

Not his mate. Just a mistake.

He opened the hallway closet. Pulled out rags and a half-filled bucket. Dropped them in front of me.

“Clean the floor”he commanded.

“Draven...” I started, but his tone cut through me.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.” His tone snapped shut like a lock turning.

“I thought we were...” I tried again, voice cracking.

“Don’t think,” he said. “Just do.”

I dropped to my knees. The wood bit into my bones.

The bucket smelled like bleach and mold. My fingers ached from the cold. My knees throbbed on the hard wooden floor. I felt his gaze on me. Heavy. Constant.

Every few minutes, he tossed another command, voice like iron.

“Don’t miss the corners. That spot by the wall is still dirty,” he said coldly.

“You used to be useful. At least now you’re finally good for something,” he added.

Each word hit like a blow, but I stayed silent.

When I reached the stairs, I paused to breathe. My palms were raw. My back screamed.

Then his boot landed beside my hand.

“Move faster,” he said, voice flat.

“I’m doing the best I can,” I whispered, head lowered.

“Then your best isn’t good enough,” he said emphatically.

I looked up at him, vision blurred with exhaustion and something worse.

"How long do I have to keep enduring this, Draven?"

Before he could answer, someone knocked. Three sharp raps at the door.

A voice followed, muffled through the wood.

“Alpha,” the man said from the other side. “Ms. Blackwood is here. She’s asking for you.”

I froze. Still on my knees. Still gripping the rag.

Draven didn’t answer me. Didn’t even look at me. He just turned and walked toward the door.

Like he hadn’t just spit those words at me. Like I didn’t exist.

The door opened and I heard his Footsteps. Then it shut behind him. He left me kneeling there like a kicked dog.

I didn’t think. I just moved and followed him. Quiet as I could, I stayed in the shadows along the edge of the house. My breath caught when I saw him with her.

She leaned against one of the motorcycles like it was hers. Legs crossed at the ankle. Skin-tight leather. Red lips. The kind of beauty that could weaponize a man’s weakness.

She was laughing and she wasn’t just talking to him.

Damn, She was touching him and they kissed.