Alpha’s Strength(30)

“Oh damn it.” He threw his arms in the air. “I’m asking how you are. How is everything with you?”

Mitchell stared at him for a second before answering. “I’m fine. How are you?”

“Good.” Well, this was awkward. Maybe this was why he didn’t do this kind of thing. He’d clearly made Mitchell uncomfortable with this nonsense. “Thanks for the help. I do appreciate it.”

“You don’t have to thank me, Cyrus. You know it is my duty and pleasure. You’re my Alpha.”

That was the first time he’d heard Mitchell use his name. Asking how he was had produced a result. He kind of liked it.

“Good night.”

Mitchell stepped toward the elevator. “’Night.”

Cyrus walked into his apartment. He took a deep breath. Already Betsy’s scent had permeated the room. He loved the way it drifted into his skin, attaching to his pores, entering his blood stream until he could practically exist on her scent alone.

He dropped his briefcase on the floor next to the door. Tension pulled on the muscles at the back of his neck, but Betsy’s presence in his place helped a lot. She might not like it here. Someday, when she was officially his, if she wanted to move he’d let her pick any place in the city she wanted. Anything to make her happy.

Of course if he told her that, he’d fuck it up and she’d probably refuse to live with him altogether.

He wandered through the place, knowing she was in the guest room with the door closed. Her scent was strongest there. She could have gone anywhere she desired, and the guest room with the door closed certainly spoke volumes. Go away. Don’t bother me.

Cyrus walked into his room and let out the growl he needed to release. His mate was in his apartment. Beautiful and untouchable—at least to him. He could break down the door if he wanted to. With very little effort, he could yank the door off its hinges, throw it to the side, and be in there.

Could he make her want him as he did her? Could he show her with his body what he’d never be able to say with his words? That the years of doubting, even that such a thing as a true mate existed, had turned his soul into a hardened shell. It had been a long time since he’d even paid attention to it.

But he wanted her to. She’d stood up for him against Lake—and against Alexei. Would she do it again? He sat down on the edge of his bed and rubbed his shoulder where Lilliana had jabbed at him. It didn’t hurt of course, but the guilt he’d felt at Lilliana’s words had burned him like a branding iron.

Thinking of her brought on another memory he’d not dwelled on for a while. When Travis had first mated her, he’d given her a necklace, a totem of a female wolf. It was meant to be Lily, the first female werewolf, the woman who, legend said, all Alpha werewolves descended from. She’d been tough, been a survivor through horrendous circumstances.

The whole story always brought a sour taste to his mouth, but the necklace had been passed from female werewolves to their offspring for generations. At some point, it had gone from his great grandmother to an aunt and then eventually to Travis’ mother. He and Travis were very distant cousins.

It had bugged him immensely. With one choice, one aunt takes the necklace, and somehow his sister ultimately gets screwed out of a legacy she should have had. The necklace, however, rightfully belonged to Lake. Lake had never wanted for anything. He’d seen to that once his parents had been gone. Strangely enough, Lilliana had turned the necklace over to him. She’d said he needed it. Whatever that meant.

He’d tried to give it to Lake, and she’d refused it, something about not liking old things. It had been sitting in his sock drawer ever since.

Without another thought, he retrieved it. Betsy needed to have it. It should belong to her now. And, if nothing else, giving it to her would give him an excuse to talk to her tonight, and that was what he really needed. To speak to Betsy one more time before he lay down for the night and stared at his ceiling, which was all he did lately.

Totem in hand, he knocked on the guest room door.

“Come in,” Betsy called, and he turned the door handle.

He walked into his spare bedroom wondering when he had last gone in. The room was consistently cleaned, thanks to the staff he employed, but he never had any reason to enter himself. No one came to his apartment. Ever.

Betsy sat in a chair next to the window, knees pulled up, and seeming very, very small. Her bed appeared untouched, completely unwrinkled as though the housekeeper had made it. The glow from small lamp next to the bed cast the room in shadows.

“Are you okay?”

She sniffed and wiped at her eyes. Hell, had she been crying?