His Daddy’s Fated Mate

7: Ruined life

Liam’s POV

Hannah is still on the floor, thirty minutes after she tried to put on her clothes but couldn’t manage it. Her shoulders are slumped, and she keeps rubbing at her arms like she’s trying to comfort herself.

I can’t help but feel a pang of guilt. Actually, guilt isn’t the right word. This is a full-blown punch to the gut. I’m the one who did this to her. The realization sinks in deeper every time I look at her.

I don’t even know what’s happening anymore. How did it come to this? How did I let myself go so far? But no matter what happens, I can’t change the fact that she’s my mate now. My mate.

I still can’t wrap my head around it. Hannah freaking Voss. She used to braid Taylor’s hair and sit on the porch with Tucker while they plotted whatever mischief siblings get into.

She wasn’t supposed to grow up and… well, look like this. Looking like every man’s dream and wrapped up like a sin.

But she’s my mate. And no matter how much she hates it, she’s stuck with me now. Even if I have to make her my maid to keep up appearances. It’s better this way. Safer.

There’s no way I’m letting Tucker and Taylor or anyone else, for that matter catch a whiff of what’s going on between us. I’d die before I let her go through that kind of humiliation. People that already don’t want me on my seat will take it away. I can’t risk it.

But I know I can’t keep this a secret forever. Her parents, at least, deserve to know. Beta James won’t forgive me if I keep him in the dark for too long. And Juliet Gods, Juliet. That woman would probably rip my throat out if she knew the full story.

But what do I even tell them? That their sweet, innocent daughter, who’s always looked at me like some sort of hero, woke up one morning to find herself marked? And by me, of all people? They’ll hate me. Hannah probably already does.

I lean back in my chair and rub my temples, trying to shake the headache that’s been brewing since last night or was it early this morning? I can barely remember anymore. The whole night is a blur of heat, instinct, and the scent of her.

Gods, that scent. Milk and musk. It’s been her scent since she was a child, but now… now it’s amplified. Richer, sweeter, more intoxicating. Just thinking about it makes my pulse quicken.

“Focus,” I mutter to myself, dragging my eyes back to the computer screen.

But I can’t focus. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her move. Hannah’s finally managed to get to her feet, but she’s so shaky I’m half afraid she’ll fall over again.

She stumbles to the couch and collapses onto it like every step took the last bit of strength she had. For a long moment, she just sits there, staring at nothing. Then she starts looking around the room, probably trying to figure out where her clothes ended up.

I follow her gaze and spot a black thong draped over the desk. A flush rises to my face. Did I…? No. Surely I wasn’t that reckless. But then again, the evidence is right there. I must have been like some kind of animal last night, tearing her clothes off without a second thought.

“I’m not a pervert,” I mutter under my breath, as if saying it out loud will make it true.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Valor chimes in, his voice dripping with amusement.

“Shut up,” I snap, but my wolf just laughs. He’s been insufferable ever since the bond snapped into place, and I can’t blame him. He’s wanted this for years. I, on the other hand, could’ve done without it.

Hannah finally finds her cropped top and pulls it over her head, covering herself. My shoulders sag in relief and disappointment at the same time. What the hell is wrong with me? She’s Hannah. Sweet, kind, innocent Hannah.

The same girl who used to sit on my lap during pack meetings because she was too shy to speak to anyone else. The same girl who used to bring me flowers from Celia’s garden because she thought they’d make me smile.

But she’s not that girl anymore. She’s a woman now. A beautiful, fiery, stubborn woman. And those tattoos… When did she get tattoos? There’s a large tree on her shoulder, its roots twisting down her arm. Is it supposed to symbolize the pack? Or something else? I want to ask her, but I know better than to try. Not now, anyway.

She finishes getting dressed, except for her underwear, which she hasn’t spotted yet. I almost tell her where it is, but the words catch in my throat. Some part of me some dark, selfish part doesn’t want her to find it.

When she’s fully clothed, she sinks back down onto the floor, pulling her knees to her chest. Her shoulders shake as she starts to cry again, her sobs so quiet I almost don’t hear them.

My chest tightens at the sight. I should comfort her. I should say something. But what can I say? “Sorry I ruined your life”? Somehow, I don’t think that’ll cut it.

No. There’s only one thing I can do. I grab my phone and dial a number I haven’t called in years.