Chapter 3: Not Going Anywhere

"You're really doing this."

Cole's voice carries across the clearing as I sling my bag higher on my shoulder. He came to walk me the rest of the way himself, meeting me at the property line like he promised, three of his fighters trailing a respectful distance behind him.

"I said I would."

"Didn't think you'd actually show up alone." He glances past me toward Jaxton, who's kept pace the whole way without saying a word since our conversation by the fence. "Didn't think you'd show up with company either."

"He's not company. He's a problem I haven't solved yet."

Jaxton's jaw ticks but he doesn't argue the point.

We're maybe a hundred yards from the property line, close enough that I can already feel something loosening in my chest at the thought of finally leaving this place behind, when a shout cuts across the clearing.

"Delaney."

I know that voice before I turn around. Dean.

He's coming across the field at a dead run, shirt half untucked, hair a mess like he threw himself out of bed the second someone told him where I'd gone. His eyes find mine and there's something wild in them, something that wasn't there last night when he stood in front of the whole pack and called me fatass like it was nothing.

"Don't," I say, more to myself than to him.

He doesn't listen. He never does.

He closes the distance fast, faster than a man should be able to move on foot, and his hand closes around my arm before I can step back. His fingers dig in hard enough that I know there'll be a bruise by tonight.

"My mate isn't going anywhere."

The words hang in the cold morning air, ugly and possessive, and every single person in that clearing goes still.

"You rejected me," I say, voice shaking despite everything I do to steady it. "Last night. In front of everyone. You don't get to grab me the morning after and pretend that didn't happen."

"Doesn't matter what I said." His grip tightens. "You're still mine. That doesn't change just because I was angry."

"Angry." I laugh, and it comes out sharp and broken. "You weren't angry, Dean. You were cruel. There's a difference."

Cole steps forward, fists clenching, but it's Jaxton who moves first.

He doesn't shout. He doesn't posture the way Dean is posturing, chest puffed out, wolf riding too close under his skin. He just steps between us, calm and cold in a way that's somehow worse than rage, and looks at Dean's hand still locked around my arm.

"Let go of her."

"Who the hell are you." Dean's eyes cut to him, taking in the unfamiliar face, the stance of a man who's never once had to raise his voice to be obeyed. "This isn't your pack. This isn't your business."

"It became my business the second you put a mark on her arm."

"She's my mate."

"She was your mate." Jaxton's voice doesn't rise, but something underneath it goes sharp enough to cut. "You stood in front of two hundred witnesses and threw that away with your own mouth. You don't get to take it back because you changed your mind twelve hours later."

Dean's grip loosens for half a second, just enough that I could pull free if I wanted to, but I don't move. I want to hear this.

"You don't know anything about our bond."

"I know you called her fatass in front of your whole pack and laughed while you did it." Jaxton takes one step closer, and the air between the two men goes thick enough to choke on. "I know real mates don't do that to each other. Whatever you think you're owed, you lost the right to it the moment you opened your mouth."

Dean's face twists, humiliation and fury tangled together, and I watch his control slip a notch further. His eyes flash gold, wolf pushing hard against the surface, and the fighters standing behind Cole shift uneasily, hands going to their sides.

"You have no idea what's at stake here," Dean snarls, and there's something underneath the anger now, something that sounds almost like fear. "You don't understand what she is. What she means. You're a stranger playing hero in a fight that isn't yours."

"Then explain it," Jaxton says. "Right now. In front of everyone standing here. Tell us exactly what's so important that it justifies bruising her arm and dragging her back against her will."

Dean opens his mouth like he might actually do it, like the truth is right there behind his teeth, and for one strange second I think he's going to say something that changes everything.

Then his whole body seizes.

It happens fast, faster than anyone can react. Dean's hand drops from my arm as he staggers backward, one hand pressed hard against his own chest like something inside him just came loose. His knees buckle. His eyes, gold a second ago, flicker back to human brown, then gold again, then human, control sliding in and out like a radio losing signal.

"Dean?" Cole's voice cracks with alarm.

Dean doesn't answer. He's staring down at his own shaking hands like he doesn't recognize them, sweat breaking out across his forehead despite the cold morning air. His wolf, the thing that's supposed to answer to him without question, is fighting him for control right there in front of every single person watching, and losing that fight in full view of the pack he's supposed to lead one day.

Nobody moves. Nobody breathes.

Whatever Dean was about to confess dies in his throat, replaced by something rawer, something that looks a lot like panic.

Jaxton's eyes narrow, sharp and assessing, all his earlier anger folding into something colder and more careful.

"That," he says quietly, "is not what a healthy Alpha's wolf looks like."

Dean's eyes snap up to his, wide and furious and terrified all at once, and I realize with a cold drop in my stomach that whatever just happened to him in front of the whole clearing, he didn't want anyone to see it.

Least of all me.