Addicted to His Rejected Mate

Chapter 9

[Sera]

"What if I say no?"

The words hang between us like a dare. Killian's jaw tightens, and for a moment, I see something flicker behind those icy gray eyes—surprise, maybe. Like he genuinely didn't consider that possibility.

Rich people. They really do live in their own reality, don't they?

"The terms are negotiable," he says finally. His voice is clipped. Controlled. Like he's conducting a board meeting instead of trying to buy access to my body. "If you're unhappy with the compensation—"

"It's not about the money."

His brow furrows.

"Then what is it about?" He sounds genuinely confused. Like the concept of someone refusing him on principle is a foreign language he never bothered to learn.

I let out a laugh that scrapes my throat raw. "It's about the fact that I hate you."

Silence.

His knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. The leather creaks under his grip.

"Hate is a strong word," he says slowly.

"Good. I meant it strongly." I press myself harder against the door, as if I can phase through the metal if I try hard enough. "I don't want your apartment. I don't want your money. I don't want to be anywhere near you. Is that clear enough, or should I draw you a diagram?"

Something dangerous flashes in his eyes.

"Are you sure about that, Sera?"

The way he says my name makes my stomach clench. It sounds different from his mouth. Heavier. Like a weapon being loaded.

"This morning," he continues, his voice dropping to something almost casual, "I found something interesting in your old apartment."

My blood goes cold.

No.

"I don't know what you're—"

"A sketchbook." He tilts his head, studying me like I'm a specimen under glass. "Quite impressive, actually. Your technique. The attention to detail."

I can't breathe. My lungs have forgotten how to function.

"The shading on my jawline was particularly well-executed." His lips curl into something that isn't quite a smile. "You must have spent quite a lot of time studying my face to capture it so accurately."

Heat floods my cheeks. Not embarrassment—something worse. Humiliation so acute it burns like acid in my veins.

"That was—" My voice comes out strangled. "That was a long time ago."

"Was it?" He leans closer, and suddenly the car feels microscopic. His scent wraps around me—cedar and rain and something darker underneath—and my traitorous body responds before my brain can intervene.

"Yes," I hiss. "It was. I was young and stupid, and I had terrible taste. Clearly."

"Your body disagrees."

His fingers brush the mark on my neck—feather-light, barely a touch—and electricity shoots through me like I've grabbed a live wire. My whole body jolts toward him, drawn by some invisible thread I can't control, and for one horrifying second I'm leaning into his space, breathing his air, close enough to count the flecks of amber in those cold gray eyes.

Then I freeze.

His smirk is devastating. Sharp and knowing and absolutely insufferable.

"See?" he murmurs. "You hate me so much you can barely keep your hands off me."

The spell shatters.

I shove him back so hard he hits the driver's side door. The surprise on his face is almost worth the mortification clawing up my throat.

"Don't touch me." I'm already fumbling for the door handle, my hands shaking so badly I can barely grip it. "Don't ever touch me again."

"Sera—"

The door flies open and I practically fall onto the pavement. My knees scrape concrete, but I don't care. I need out. I need away. I need to be anywhere this man isn't.

"Reconsider my offer," Killian calls after me as I stumble to my feet. "I'm not a patient man."

I don't look back. I can't. If I look back, he'll see the tears burning in my eyes, and I'd rather die than give him that satisfaction.

I walk until my legs shake. Until my lungs burn. Until the black car is just a speck in the distance and my heart finally stops trying to claw its way out of my chest.

Over the next few days, I bury myself in work.

Coffee shop. Delivery runs. Hotel cleaning. Rinse and repeat until I'm too exhausted to think. Too numb to remember the way his fingers felt on my mark. The way my body betrayed me in that car.

By Saturday, I've scraped together the last of my payment.

Eleven years. That's how long I've been paying off this debt. Ever since I was twelve years old and my parents crashed on a rain-slick highway, leaving me with hospital bills I couldn't afford and a desperate choice no child should have to make.

The Hollow saved them. Temporarily.

They still died six months later. Mom first, then Dad—like he couldn't survive without her. And I was left alone, an orphan with a mountain of debt and a pack that wanted nothing to do with a wolfless burden.

But today, it ends. Today I finally crawl out from under The Hollow's shadow.

The base is exactly as depressing as I remember. A back room behind a condemned warehouse, reeking of mold and bad decisions. Owen—the middle-aged Beta who runs collections—greets me with a smile that makes my skin crawl.

"Sera." He draws out my name like he's savoring it. "Right on time."

I hand over the envelope. Everything I have. Everything I've scraped and saved and bled for over eleven years.

He counts it slowly. Methodically. Each bill feels like a piece of my soul being catalogued.

"All here," he confirms.

Relief floods through me so fast I almost cry.

"Great." I turn toward the door. "Then we're done."

"Not quite."

I freeze.

Owen slides another piece of paper across the table. A bill. With a number that makes my vision blur.

One million dollars.

"What the hell is this?"

"Compound interest." His smile widens, oily and satisfied. "Eleven years' worth. It's all in the original contract, sweetheart."

"That clause was never in the contract!" My voice echoes off the dingy walls. "I read every page—"

"And the contract is in our possession." He shrugs, unbothered. Amused, even. "Your word against ours."

I stare at the number until my eyes burn.

One million dollars. I couldn't earn that in ten lifetimes. Not with three jobs. Not if I worked every hour of every day until I dropped dead.

They never intended to let me go. A wolfless Omega with no pack, no family, no resources—I was the perfect mark from the start.

"You can't—this is insane—" I'm sputtering, panic clawing up my throat. "There's no way I can pay—"

"Oh, I've heard you have connections now." Owen's eyes glitter with something predatory. "The Voss Group CEO, wasn't it? This amount would be pocket change for a man like that."

"I don't have any relationship with—"

"No?" He rises from his chair, circling me slowly. His gaze crawls over my body like insects. "That's a shame. Because there are... other ways to settle a debt. You might be wolfless, but you're not bad-looking. Certain clients on the underground market pay well for... unique merchandise."

My blood turns to ice.

"You'd be surprised what people will pay for an Omega." His breath is hot on my neck. "Especially one with no pack to come looking for her."

I run.

I don't think. Don't plan. Just bolt for the door and keep running until my lungs scream and my legs buckle and I'm bent over in some unfamiliar alley, gasping for air that won't come fast enough.

One million dollars. An astronomical sum I could never afford in my lifetime.

Except...

My hand drifts to my pocket, to the business card I shoved there after that first humiliating encounter with Killian's lawyer, and I realize the horrifying truth: the only person who can help me is the man I swore I'd never go back to.