Bloodbound to the Lycan King

My command, unsurprisingly, falls on deaf ears.

Rafe lunges forward, completely ignoring how hard I'm trying to shove him away, even with every ounce of strength I can muster. My skin crawls where it contacts his chest.

He moves—forward, though. Not backward.

Inexorable and manic, his eyes darting all over my face.

"I'll allow that slap, and even this—" his voice drops low, his familiar voice now unfamiliar and nauseating, "—just this once, Grace. I understand you're angry with me. I'm letting you vent. But I won't tolerate it in the future."

Won't tolerate it.

The words echo, bouncing around my head like a toxic cannon ball.

Won't tolerate it.

As if he has any right to tolerate or not tolerate anything I do.

To Rafe, I'm a silly girl throwing a tantrum, not the wronged woman he cheated on.

What a scumbag.

My mouth goes dry. I stare at him—really stare—and wonder how I ever looked at this man and saw someone worth loving. His perfectly symmetrical face, those blue eyes I used to craft embarrassing mental poetry over, and the now-greasy golden hair I used to run my fingers through.

All of it makes my stomach churn.

It's like Prince Raphael of my memory turned around, grew up, started smoking, and became a sleaze.

"Are you even hearing yourself?" The words come out faint, because it's honestly hard to even believe the level of delusion this man's operating under. My first impression, of him being some drug-addled nitwit from a TV show, slithers back into my head. Seriously, is he on drugs?

Then again, I don't think any drugs work on werewolves.

Behind me, Ron's barely holding himself back, the air practically vibrating with his frustration.

And the kids are watching all of this unfold.

I can't let this keep going.

Won't tolerate it, he said.

What a fucking dick.

Disgust rises like bile in my throat.

I'd desperately tried to be good enough for this pack. For Brax, who held the highest position. I didn't want to shame the man I considered my stepfather; didn't want to shame the boy I fell in love with.

I twisted myself into mental and emotional pretzels for trash.

Humble pie is bitter as fuck.

"You know what?" A laugh bubbles up from somewhere dark inside me, and it sounds happy. Too happy. So happy it's fucking hysterical. "You're right, Rafe. You absolutely shouldn't tolerate it."

His expression shifts, confusion softening the hard lines of his face. Then he smiles beatifically, his head tilting as his lips curve, eyes soft and warm.

He thinks I'm agreeing with him.

What an idiot.

I step closer. My stomach twists violently, revulsion crawling across my skin like a million tiny spiders, but I force myself forward.

His eyes light up, a wolf-bright gleam of victory. His prey is surrendering. He's won.

"Gracie..." he breathes, so sweet, so familiar, as his hands reach for me.

The movement gives me the perfect opening. I bring my knee up hard between his legs, putting every ounce of my body weight behind it. At the same instant, I slam both palms against his chest in another shove.

The combo catches him completely off-guard. His eyes bulge, face contorting in shock and pain as he stumbles backward.

Wolves might be strong, but their balls are as tender as any human's.

His foot misses the top step, and suddenly he's tumbling, arms windmilling as he falls off the RV steps to the ground below, like a scene from a cheap comic.

A sneer twists my lips as I stand in the doorway, looking down at him.

"We're over, Rafe. Go back to Ellie and apologize to her for being such a piece of shit."

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Grace?" Even though every word comes out through gritted teeth as he rolls and writhes against the ground, it isn't hard to understand him.

I roll my eyes; I can't help it. The drama he's creating over nothing…

"You, Rafe. You're what's wrong with me. You can't take no for an answer and you don't know when you've overstayed your welcome. You honestly think cheating on someone is the way to a woman's heart?"

"It's not—" he hisses out a breath and grinds out the rest of the sentence in one fell swoop, "it'snotcheatingwithus."

It takes a few seconds to unravel his meaning, and I snort.

Ron, no longer tense, grabs at my arm and pulls me out of the doorway. "Don't argue with him, Grace. Some people aren't capable of learning."

His earnest explanation for Rafe's stupidity helps ease the frustration and fury simmering beneath my skin, and I scrub my hands absently against the sides of my legs. They no longer tingle, but I feel… dirty. Like I should take a shower or something.

"Grace—!"

"Stop calling her name." The teenager in front of me no longer looks like a child as he glares down at Rafe, completely oblivious to the power the other man holds in this pack. Or maybe he doesn't care. "You aren't worthy."

My lips twitch.

"Where'd you learn to talk like that?"

Ron doesn't even glance at me as he lowers his voice. "TV."

No wonder.

Rafe's groans resemble the sounds of a dying animal. A really loud rodent, if I have to specify. Which I don't. But I do anyway, because it feels good to compare him to something ugly. Like a possum.

A mutated one.

Cross-bred with a naked mole rat.

I'd love to say it's satisfying to watch him roll around in pain, but it's mostly a hollow victory.

Understanding you've spent years on trash makes it kind of hard to enjoy the moment.

"Come on, get inside," Ron says, his hand on my shoulder, like he's the adult in this situation.

Regaining a little of my pride, I step back inside, watching in amusement as he shoves me behind him.

"Just close the door. He can't get in."

Ron stares at Rafe, still rolling on the ground and swearing in between calling out my name, and something dark flashes across his face. But then he obediently closes the door and engages the lock with a defiant click.

The camper's quiet without Rafe's dramatics, bringing peace back to our lives. Of course, now we have two werewolves on the ground outside of it, but—whatever. I'll leave them for Caine to figure out when he gets here.

I wipe my palms against my legs, unable to shake the crawling sensation from where I touched the bastard, and turn to face the living room. Jer and Sara stand there, wide-eyed and frozen; Bun's propped on Sara's hip, where she's uninterested in all the drama and instead focused on chewing the tail end of Sara's dark braid like it's some form of chocolate jerky.

Meanwhile, the older two keep staring at me with a very strange expression, one I can't quite decipher.

"What?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious. "Are you guys okay?" Guilt pricks. "Were you scared?"

Sara shakes her head slowly, her expression one of pure awe. "I didn't know these things really happen to people."

I push my hair out of my face, confusion momentarily replacing the lingering disgust from my encounter with Rafe. "What things?"

"Ron always says TV isn't realistic, but it's spot-on," she explains, still sounding starstruck.

I stare at her, a little helpless. "Should you be watching soap operas at your age?"

"I watch them, too," Jer pipes up helpfully.

"That's even worse."

"Way to be an influence on young children, Grace," Ron says, resting his elbow on my shoulder. "Sara, don't date guys like that. You don't want to end up like Grace."

"I dunno—looked kinda fun. Especially the end part where she went wham with her knee!" She jerks her knee up with a particularly evil grin, and my heart drops.

Yep. Mother of the Year. Now my pseudo-daughter wants to date scum just so she can knee them in the balls.

Pretty sure I'm failing at all the things…