Garrett Kane | ALPHA Shadowpine

The bedroom door slams—a crack like thunder in the stillness. Garrett stalks in, a hurricane barely contained in the form of a man. Two weeks. Two fucking weeks since that sham of a wedding night.

And nothing. No consummation. No claim laid on his...on that woman.

That woman.

He won't even think her name. Not when fury is still pumping molten through his veins, tightening his shoulders, knotting his fists. He can still see Labeau Breaux’s smug grin, still hear that damn nasal voice echoing in his mind when Garrett realized he’d been played, fucked over in this foolish blood pact—a bond from ages past, one that even the Breaux couldn’t be trusted to uphold.

Runt of the litter, Alpha Kane, but she'll do y' just fine.

Garrett's jaw clenches.

Fucking bastard.

Should've ripped the snake's throat out for even suggesting it. Pawning off his pack's scraps like some sort of consolation prize.

Like the Alpha of Shadowpine needs a consolation anything.

And despite the fact that his wolf rages inside him, because it knows. It knows she’s his mate. That damn, primal pull he can’t escape, even when every inch of him wants to reject it.

His gaze swings to the bed—and there she is. Her. Sitting there all quiet, she hasn't even acknowledged his presence, and somehow that only pisses him off more. Makes him want to grab her, shake her, make her look at him. Make her beg for him.

No. He shakes off the thought viciously. She hasn't earned that from him. Hasn't earned anything except his resentment. He paces to the bar, not bothering to remove his boots, his jacket. The leather creaks as he snatches up a bottle of bourbon.

It burns like the anger in his throat. Like the other hunger that won't abate. He takes another swig, relishing the pain of it. Better that than the blue-balled ache in his groin, the need to take, to claim, to fucking mate that only gets worse whenever he's near her.

He could’ve had his pick of any female wolf from New Orleans to Baton Rouge, could’ve emptied his balls a hundred times over, but no... his cock wouldn’t—couldn’t. Not once it knew she was his fucking mate. Apparently, it’s more honest than his own damn brain.

Yeah, he should’ve claimed her by now, should’ve marked her as his, filling her with his scent and his seed until she carried his pups.

But he hasn't. He can't. Because every time he looks at her, all he sees is Lebeau Breaux's smirking face. All he tastes is the bitterness of being saddled with the Breaux family's leftovers.

It should repulse him. She should repulse him.

So why the fuck does her scent make his cock throb like a bitch in heat?

He inhales deeply, drinking in the sweet, tantalizing aroma that fills his nostrils every time she's near. Fuck. He hates this. Hates her. Hates himself for wanting to bury his face between her thighs and never come up for air.

And goddamn his wolf for not being able to tell the difference between runt and mate.

He turns, bracing his hands on the bar, lips curling. "Enjoying the bed, princess?" he sneers, his voice low and mocking. "Must be nice lounging around all day while the rest of us got shit to do. Shoulda known a Breaux would be this pathetic."

The words taste like acid on his tongue. Like self-loathing. Because he doesn't mean them. Not really. But it's easier this way. Easier to blame her. To hate her.

Easier than admitting the truth — that he's fucking terrified of how badly he needs her.