Addicted to His Rejected Mate

Chapter 8

[Sera]

"You look like shit."

Riley's standing at the espresso machine, watching me wipe down the counter with the intensity of someone who's already diagnosed my entire medical history through vibes alone. The morning rush just ended, leaving the café in that blessed mid-morning lull where only a few stragglers nurse their drinks by the window.

"Good morning to you too," I mutter.

"I'm serious." She leans against the pastry case, arms crossed. "Didn't you rest yesterday? You look worse than you did before your day off."

"Just didn't sleep well," I say, scrubbing a spot that's already clean.

What I don't say: I woke up this morning to a broken door lock and an empty bed. The bastard didn't even have the decency to stick around—just vanished like a ghost, leaving me to deal with the mess. I called three locksmiths before my shift. None of them can come until Thursday. So I shoved my dresser against the door and came to work smelling like s*x and regret.

"Sera." Riley's voice softens. "If something's going on—"

"I'm fine." I paste on a smile that probably looks unhinged. "Really. Just need coffee."

She doesn't believe me. She's known me for two years—watched me work doubles when I could barely stand, listened to me lie about being "fine" a thousand times. But she's also kind enough not to push.

I throw myself into restocking cups and organizing the pastry display. Anything to keep my hands busy. Anything to stop my brain from wandering into darker territory—like wondering where Killian is right now, whether he even remembers what happened, whether he's already erased me from his mind the way he erased himself from my bed.

Stop it, I tell myself. He's not worth it. He was never worth it.

I'm mentally rehearsing the speech I'll give the police if I ever see that jerk again when the door chimes.

I look up, prepared to fake enthusiasm for another caffeine-dependent human, and stop.

The guy walking in is... a lot. Tall. Honey-brown hair that flops over his forehead in that effortlessly messy way that definitely requires forty-five minutes of effort. Warm brown eyes. A smile so bright it's practically aggressive.

"Hi!" He waves like we're old friends. "I'm looking for Riley? She said to come in around eleven—"

"Ryan!" Riley materializes from the back like she's been summoned. "Perfect timing. This is Sera—she'll be training you today."

I blink. "Training him on what?"

"Didn't I mention? Ryan's our new part-timer." She's already untying her apron. "I have to run to the bank. You've got this."

And then she's gone, leaving me with Mr. Sunshine over here, who's still smiling like someone's paying him by the watt.

"So!" Ryan claps his hands together. "Where do we start?"

"You ever worked in a café before?" I ask.

"No, but I've done other food service stuff! Smoothie place. Campus dining hall." He bounces on his heels. "I'm a fast learner. I'm a freshman at Pemberton U, by the way. Figured I'd pick up some hours between classes."

Pemberton. The prestigious university on the other side of town. Of course this golden retriever in human form goes to a school that costs more per semester than I make in a year.

He's not lying about being a fast learner, though. Within an hour, he's got the basics down.

The lunch rush hits, and he handles it like a champ. Friendly, efficient, only slightly too enthusiastic. The regulars love him. Of course they do.

I hate that I don't hate him.

"You're good at this," I admit during a lull, watching him wipe down tables with actual vigor.

"Thanks!" He beams. "My mom says I have 'aggressive hospitality energy.'"

I snort. "That's... a phrase."

"She's not wrong." He shrugs, still smiling. "I just like making people's days a little better, you know?"

I don't know, actually. I've been surviving so long I forgot what thriving looks like. But something about his earnestness makes me want to protect it. Shield it from the world's sharp edges.

Or maybe I'm just exhausted and projecting.

The afternoon passes faster than expected. Ryan's constant chatter is almost soothing—a white noise that keeps my brain from wandering back to golden eyes and whispered promises that meant nothing in the daylight. By the time my shift ends, I've barely thought about Killian at all.

Barely.

I grab my jacket and head out the back door into the alley. The air is crisp, biting. Early autumn sneaking in like it has something to prove.

That's when I see the car.

Black. Expensive. The kind of vehicle that screams I could buy your entire apartment building and not notice the expense. It's parked where the dumpsters usually live, sleek and predatory against the brick walls.

My stomach drops.

The window rolls down.

Gray eyes meet mine. Cold. Calculating. Nothing like the molten gold that pinned me to my kitchen floor last night.

"Get in."

Two words. That's all he says. Like I'm a dog being called to heel.

Something hot and bitter rises in my throat. "No."

Killian's jaw tightens. "Sera—"

"We have nothing to discuss." I force my voice to stay steady even though my hands are shaking. "You made your feelings perfectly clear. Multiple times. So whatever this is, I'm not interested. And if you show up at my apartment again, I'm calling the police."

I turn to walk away.

"You can get in the car," he says slowly, "or I can step out and let the entire street watch us have this conversation. Your choice."

I look around. The alley's quiet now, but the main street is right there. People walking by. Neighbors. Coworkers who might see.

And Killian Voss, the goddamn Alpha King, ready to step out and turn this into a headline.

Bastard.

I yank the door open and slide inside before I can talk myself out of it. The leather seats are cool against my back. The interior smells like him—cedar and something darker. Something that makes my stupid, traitorous body want to lean closer.

"What do you want?" I snap, pressing myself against the door. As far from him as physically possible. "You rejected me. You made yourself clear—I'm nothing to you. A mistake. An inconvenience. So why do you keep showing up?"

"Something's wrong."

That stops me. His voice sounds different. Strained. Like the words are being pulled from somewhere deep and unwilling.

"With you?" I can't help the bitter laugh. "Yeah. I noticed. You're a complete—"

"With me." He cuts me off, and when I finally look at him—really look—I see it.

The tension in his shoulders. The way his hands grip the steering wheel like he's trying to strangle it. The faint shadows under his eyes, dark as bruises.

"I have Mate Madness," he says.

The words hang between us.

Mate Madness.

I know what that is. Every wolf knows. It's the stuff of horror stories.

"You're telling me," I say slowly, "that rejecting me broke something in you."

His jaw clenches. "I didn't want this."

"Neither did I!" The words explode out of me. "You think I wanted any of this? You marked me. You rejected me. You made me feel like garbage. And now you're telling me that you're the one suffering?"

"I'm telling you," he grits out, "that we need to find a solution. Together."

He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a document. Thick. Official-looking.

"You'll move into an apartment owned by Voss Group," he says, sliding it toward me. "During full moons, you'll cooperate with my wolf. In exchange, you receive financial security. Enough to cover your rent, your debts, anything you need."

I stare at the document.

Then I stare at him.

"Let me get this straight." My voice is dangerously quiet. "You want me to be your... what? Your monthly service provider? Your wolf's comfort toy?"

"It's a business arrangement."

"It's prostitution with extra steps."

His eyes flash gold for just a second—his wolf, clawing at the surface. But then the cold gray returns, and his voice comes out flat.

"I want to survive. And unfortunately, you're the only one who can help me do that."

I want to laugh. Because only Killian Voss could make a plea for help sound like an accusation.

Unfortunately—as if I'm some disease he contracted against his will. As if he's not the one who marked me, rejected me, and crawled back into my bed when his precious control slipped.

Something cold unfurls in my chest. Not sadness. Anger.

Pure, clarifying anger.

I meet his eyes. Those cold, beautiful, hateful gray eyes.

"What if I say no?"