Reborn To Defy The Alpha-Chapter 71: He Fated Mate

Seraphine eyes lowered, her hands tightening painfully around the fabric she clutched. So that was what mattered. Not her dignity. Not her state. Not the fact she had been reduced to this for his convenience.

She swallowed hard. "And what will they say," she asked softly, "if they see me walking out of your room like this... bare and exposed?"

That made him pause.

His frown deepened before he exhaled sharply. "Fine." He jerked his chin toward the wardrobe. "There are new shirts in there. Ones I have not worn. Take one. Keep it after."

He lay back down again, turning his back fully, already done with her.

Seraphine stood there for a moment, staring at the rigid line of his shoulders. A muscle in her cheek twitched. She said nothing, because anything she said would shatter her completely.

She walked toward the wardrobe instead and opened it carefully.

Inside were neatly folded rows of shirts, all crisp, unworn, and untouched by his scent. Her fingers hovered for a moment before settling on a soft white one near the front.

"Remember to clean up before you leave," Eberhard said, without turning to her, his voice flat and cold. "I don’t want anyone catching my scent on you."

There was no tenderness in the reminder. No consideration. Just inconvenience.

Seraphine looked at him, her eyes lingering on the broad expanse of his turned back, on the man who had taken every part of her and left her hollow. Something in her chest tightened painfully. He never looked at her after. He never wanted to.

She swallowed hard, steadying her voice. "I understand," she said. She somehow kept it steady, even though her throat burned.

She clutched the shirt to her chest and slipped into the bathroom.

The moment the door clicked shut behind her, her knees threatened to give out. She leaned against the counter, her breath shuddered. She closed her eyes, but the tears came anyway, hot and unstoppable, sliding down her cheeks in heavy streaks.

Her shoulders began to shake.

Silenced for years, the sob broke out of her, harsh and raw. She pressed the heel of her palm to her mouth, trying to muffle the sound

She hated this.

She hated how easily he could break her down. How he could take and take and take until she felt like nothing but a vessel carved for his use. She hated that she still came back when he called. That some small, pathetic part of her remembered the man he used to be, or maybe remembered what she wished he had been.

"Why do I let you do this to me," she whispered to the empty room.

He was her mate. Her fated partner. The one destiny tied her to.

And he treated her like she was disposable.

She looked at her reflection again, eyes swollen, cheeks streaked with tears. "I deserve more than this," she whispered. "The goddess knows I do."

But knowing and leaving were two different battles.

So she cried harder, silently, gripping the shirt to her chest as if it could somehow shield the parts of her he kept breaking.

*******

Jason stopped outside the kitchen door like it was the mouth of a cave that would eat him alive. Pots clattered inside, knives hit chopping boards in sharp rhythmic thuds, someone barked an order, and something heavy slammed against a counter. The kitchen sounded busy, irritated, and absolutely ready to devour him.

He swallowed hard. Few hours ago had been bliss, running around the pack nursery with Tavian, laughing at toddlers who thought they were wolves already, and now Jason was back where his luck went to die. His shift in the kitchen was supposed to start an hour ago, but there was no avoiding it anymore. He had to walk in. He had to face her.

He exhaled sharply and pushed himself forward.

The moment he stepped inside, the entire kitchen froze as if someone had pressed pause on a chaotic cooking documentary. Heads turned. Knives stilled. Even the boiling pots seemed to hush themselves.

Jason felt a rush of heat crawl up his neck. Every eye on him. Every expression saying the exact same thing: boy, you messed up and we all know it.

Then Marta turned.

His aunt’s glare could peel potatoes faster than her knife. Jason stiffened like he was bracing for a blow. He expected shouting, lecturing, maybe even a ladle thrown at his forehead for what happened yesterday. Her face was unreadable, but her eyes were sharp enough to dissect him on the spot.

Instead she said, in a flat, unimpressed tone, "What are you doing standing there? The dishes will not wash itself."

Jason blinked.

"Huh?"

The entire kitchen seemed to inhale.

"Go wash the dishes," Marta snapped, already turning back to the pot she was stirring.

A shock went through him. That was it? No punishment? No verbal execution in front of everyone?

"Oh, ye... Yes... yes, Aunt Marta," Jason sputtered and almost tripped over his own feet as he rushed toward the sink.

He could feel every pair of eyes trailing him, quietly judging, some amused, some pitying, all expecting him to get thrown out any second. His hands shook as he reached for the faucet.

"What are you all looking at?" Marta barked. "Go back to work."

Everyone scattered with the speed of terrified mice.

Jason released a small breath of relief, but the tension didn’t leave his shoulders. He kept glancing at Marta from the corner of his eye, waiting for the explosion he knew had to be coming. This felt wrong. This felt suspicious. Mercy wasn’t her style. Marta forgave nothing. And the glare she had shot him moments ago had been sharp enough to tell him she absolutely had not forgotten yesterday.

So why no punishment?

Why no yelling?

Why was she letting him be?

He tied the apron around his waist with clumsy fingers, eyes fixed on the sink like it was a lifeline.