"I may be your second chance, Wade, but I will not be your second choice."
Reeling from the death of his mate, Alpha Wade tried everything in his power to bring her back to life. So consumed with raising her from the dead, he almost missed his secon...
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LEFT to my own devices in the guest room, I flopped on the king-sized bed, nestled my head in the pillow, and proceeded to cry.
I cried for many reasons.
I cried for Spencer. I cried for his cousin, who had most certainly been laid to rest in the past couple of hours. I cried because I could not be there for Spencer when he needed me most.
But I also cried for myself.
I cried because things were not going according to plan. My training had been put on pause, and my future was now uncertain. And I cried because I had found my mate, and he had finally stopped ignoring me, which allowed me to face the fact that I did not hate him.
Alpha Wade.
It was because of him that I cried most heavily.
He had been cold and off-putting at first, and—admittedly—his shift in tone had not been long instated. But this change had allowed my thoughts to wander—to wander and dream. To dream of a future I could have had with Alpha Wade.
A future that looked dimmer with each passing day.
He did not want me, and I had to come to terms with that.
But my mind would not settle.
Why didn't he want me?
If I smiled a bit more or had a cheerier exterior, would he have been more willing to accept me as I am?
I hated myself for thinking such thoughts. It was him, not me.
It was him.
No matter how hard I tried to convince myself of this, pockets of doubt still lingered. It was him, but it could also be me. It could be us.
Frustrated with myself, I screamed my frustration into the now tear-soaked pillow and then slowly hauled myself up. My heart rate accelerated when I realized I had spent over an hour crying to myself.
I didn't want anyone to see me like this. More specifically, I didn't want Alpha Wade to see me like this, to see how much of an effect the bond had on me. It shouldn't have been something to be ashamed of. The bond was the pride in most Werewolves' lives. But us—our bond—was different in more ways than one.
Dashing from the four-poster bed, I opened the first of two doors in the room. It led to a bare, walk-in closet, so I turned my attention toward the second door, which led to a modest-sized bathroom.
The entire bathroom was white: white countertops, white cabinets, and white tile in the shower. As I stepped up to the pristine sink, I could see my eyes were red and puffy from crying. I wiped the stray tear streaks that ran down my face and then splashed some cold water over my face. The puffiness began to recede, but my eyes were still red.
I waited at the sink for a few moments, watching my reflection in the mirror, hoping the redness would lessen. It was like watching paint dry. My palms dug into the side of the marble countertop.
