Rejected
1940 Words
ALICIA
I had just finished my chores and was about to grab a few minutes of sleep. I will officially be eighteen tomorrow and my wolf and I can't wait. I had just lain down on my makeshift bed when the sweet scent of cinnamon hit me. I didn't think too much of it at first, but Skylar kept fidgeting. And the scent kept getting stronger and distracting enough that I had to get up to look for its source. A pair of eyes watched me from the dark corner of the room where the scent was the strongest. I froze, every thought scattering like startled birds. My heart hammered against my ribs, a desperate drumbeat of pure, confusing dread. Who is that? Why are they hiding? A cold knot twisted in my stomach as I squinted, trying to make sense of the silhouette that was suddenly too tall, too broad, and overwhelmingly, dangerously familiar.
'Mate, mate!' Skylar was a thunderous roar in my skull, obliterating rational thought. But my feet were cemented to the floor. The moment stretched, a fragile wire of shared silence, until the figure finally detached himself from the shadows.
I let my gaze map his ascent, from the powerful boots to the massive shoulders, a dizzying contrast to my own small, petite frame. He had to be six-three, maybe six-four. How utterly tiny will I look standing next to him? The thought was barely formed before my eyes collided with his face.
The smile that had begun to lift my lips froze into an expression of bewildered horror.
James!
The name was a cold stone dropping into my stomach. James? The Alpha heir? My worst nightmare and the source of every humiliation since the tragedy? This had to be the sickest joke the Moon Goddess had ever played.
He didn't move, he didn't speak; he just watched the hope drain from my face. We stood there, drowning in an eternity of silence, before he finally gave a soft, mocking clearing of his throat.
His eyes narrowed, hardening into a scowl that screamed, Don't you dare come any closer.
"Mate," he grunted.
The one word I had secretly longed for, the one meant to usher in safety and love, tore through me, cold and agonizing, because it came from him. My heart didn't just sink; it plummeted into a pit of despair. Of all the wolves in the world, it had to be him?
As he took a slow, predatory step, I instinctively retreated, until the cold, hard wall pressed into my spine. He cornered me then, a smirk of pure, triumphant malice stretching his lips, and caged me in the prison of his arms.
"Well, well, well," he breathed, the scent of cinnamon and cruelty washing over me, "if it isn't the pack's worthless trash."
My vision blurred instantly; the mist of tears was a betrayal. I knew what was coming, but a part of my heart, the part that belonged to Skylar, wasn't ready.
He lowered his head, his fingers brutally clamping beneath my chin, forcing me to expose my throat. He pressed his nose there, inhaling deeply, a claiming gesture, a possessive drag of air that lasted an agonizing beat. For a desperate second, I felt a flicker of heat, wondering what my own scent revealed.
But I couldn't dwell on that for long before his palm slid from my chin and his grip tightening slowly, chillingly, around my neck. I should have expected it. Raising his head, his eyes filled with a venomous, unadulterated hatred locked onto mine.
He whispered the inevitable words
"I, James Nigel Delorean, reject you, Alicia Dawson, as my mate and future Luna of the Crescent Moon Pack."
For the millionth time since I knew him, I wished the floor would simply fracture and swallow me whole. The pain in my chest was too much for a single person to contain, it felt like a jagged piece of obsidian had lodged itself beneath my ribs.
I couldn't speak. My throat was fire, and James was deliberately tightening his hand, his thumb digging into my windpipe, as if he intended to choke me to death for the sheer audacity of being his fated match. Breathing became a ragged desperate luxury.
Yet, I made no sound. I didn't struggle. I didn't try to pull his hand away. If he wants to kill me, a chilling calmness settled over me, then so be it. Perhaps death tonight was a sweeter fate; it would spare me the inevitable torment of watching him openly flaunt his girlfriend.
Within my mind, Skylar began a desolate howl of agony and weakness. She felt the rejection just as acutely, a broken echo of my own soul.
Hot, stinging tears welled, blurring James's hateful face, but I blinked them away with an angry, defiant force. I raised my gaze, the first time I had truly dared to meet the full fury in his eyes. Dying this way is better than staying alive. I told myself over and over.
The rejection wasn't a surprise. I knew the score. Olivia was a picture of pack perfection: beautiful, graceful, and strong. Why would the future Alpha ever choose a reeking weakling like me when his options were so clearly superior? Even I wouldn't choose me.
But he was my mate, designated by the Moon Goddess herself. And that sacred, supernatural bond, the one he just shredded still gutted me. The pain of rejection pierced deeper than all his prior cruelty combined.
When I still refused to speak, refused to acknowledge the finality of his rejection, a fresh surge of rage darkened his eyes. He tightened his grip yet again, cutting off my airflow completely. The world began to swim in a sickening, gray haze.
Was he deliberately tightening his hold? The question struggled through the graying edges of my consciousness. Does he not even realize he’s choking me? His face, usually set in its familiar mask of cold disdain, was etched with a chaotic intensity. He looked frantic, as though he had his own inner battle, desperate to finalize the rejection before anyone could stumble upon us.
One part of me welcomed the blackout, the sudden cessation of suffering. Yet, even as the darkness encroached, a fierce, desperate ember of life ignited. I want to live. But the thought was instantly hollow. Live for what? I had no hope, no one to fight for. Pathetic and greedy, I thought, damning my own survival instinct.
“Well?” he ground out, the tone laced with impatience, not concern, “Aren’t you going to accept the rejection? It’s for your own good, you know.”
His hold never wavered. My lungs were burning sacs, screaming for oxygen. I couldn't speak the required words. Feebly, a desperate, pathetic gesture, I reached up and tugged at the massive forearm clamped around my neck, a silent plea for air, a sign that I needed release to form the words he craved.
The realization of my compliance seemed to snap him out of his panic. He finally, violently, snatched his hand away.
I immediately crumpled, sinking to the cold concrete floor, gulping in air in ragged, tearing coughs. The world rushed back in dizzying, painful light. He stood over me, watching the desperate, humbling spectacle with utter disgust.
When I finally managed to steady my breath, I pushed myself up, slowly meeting his hateful gaze. The weakness in my voice matched the hollowness in my soul.
“I accept your rejection,” I whispered.
He shook his head sharply, a renewed surge of annoyance crossing his face. “That’s why you’re so stupid! You have to state your name when accepting my rejection, otherwise the bond won't sever cleanly. I don’t want you coming near me because of some lingering sentimental feeling."
The insult was the final knife twist. I nodded, compliance now a reflex.
"I, Alicia Dawson, accept your rejection,“ I enunciated, the words feeling brittle and alien on my tongue.
A shadow of smug satisfaction finally crossed his face. The task was complete. Without another glance, he turned and hurried from the storage room, leaving me alone with the gaping, bloody wound of my broken mate bond.
I wanted the floor to consume me, but the agony radiating from my chest kept me anchored to the spot. Why me? Why was I a wreck while James walked away seemingly unscathed? The mate bond was supposed to be a shared connection; did the rejection not even scratch his surface?
I should have felt triumphant! I was free! What kind of future, what kind of Luna would I have been, shackled to the man whose greatest joy was watching me suffer? The rejection was a merciful escape, yet my treacherous, idiotic heart refused the logic. It throbbed with a desperate, primal ache, screaming for me to chase him, to beg him to reclaim me.
Skylar was no comfort. She was silent now, save for that desolate, echoing howl in the hollow space where our bond used to be, too weak and broken to offer me strength.
The mate's pull shenanigans was totally unfair, I was left in ruin, while he carried on with his head held high. And the worst part? Despite the years of cruelty, I still felt the devastating, illogical pull toward him.
He had terrorized me for years. He had only stopped his personal torment last year, right after his own eighteenth birthday, choosing instead to be a spectator as others tortured me. He must have known I was his mate then, and the realization was too embarrassing, too shameful for the Alpha heir. His withdrawal was not mercy; it was distance. Watching my misery was clearly his preferred sport.
Was he testing me? That old, fragile question surfaced. Was he waiting for me to fight back? The thought was ludicrous. It's not like I could stand up to any of the pack kids anyway. The problem with being intimidated right from a young age was, no matter how tough you get, if your tormentors were bigger and stronger, there is only so little you can do in the way of standing up to them. Any show of true defiance would land me back in the cold, dark dungeon, a fate I was desperately committed to avoiding now that I’d been spared it for a blessed stretch of time.
A sudden, searing wave of pain, sharper and colder than the initial rejection, ripped through my chest. This was the claiming of another. I didn't need to hazard a guess; James was likely already in Olivia’s arms, finalizing the severance with a new bond.
But the pain was a distraction. All hope of sleep was gone. I hauled myself up, swallowing the residual ache. Nothing good came easy, and wallowing in this corner was useless. My shift would start soon. I went back to the kitchens, moving through the dawn with robotic efficiency to prepare breakfast.
With a few minutes to spare before daybreak, I changed quickly. A run and a swim were my only recourse. I needed the freezing shock of the small creek at the pack's border to wash the shame and the phantom pain away. If I were lucky, I’d be back before anyone else stirred. And if I wasn't... well, drowning sounded marginally better than the rejection.
- Writer
