Rejected by the Alpha, Claimed by his Brother
Chapter 262: _ The Young Wolf

Chapter 262: _ The Young Wolf

"What’s wrong with your bed?" María José asked, blinking slowly as if she hadn’t heard me right. "You live here. Don’t you have your own bed?"

She looked genuinely confused. Not just scandalized—I mean, yes, she was scandalized, but there was something so beautifully innocent about her expression that I almost laughed.

But I held it in, mostly because she still had that stubborn Omega fire in her eyes, and I didn’t want her kicking me out before I got under those soft sheets.

"I do," I said, letting my voice drop low and lazy, like honey in a warm glass of wine. "But it’s cold... empty. No scent. No light. I need your warmth, María José."

Her cheeks burned instantly. I mean, her whole face went red like she’d been slapped with a steaming tortilla.

She folded her arms across her chest and snapped. "That’s not happening. You’re not sleeping on my bed. Not even beside it. Not even near it."

"Just one corner," I pleaded, my voice laced with just enough wounded charm. "I promise to stay far—so far... I might as well be in another room. You won’t even know I’m there. Scout’s honor."

"You’re not a scout," she deadpanned.

"I could be. If it gets me on that bed." I winked.

She glared at me. "What if I keep saying no?"

Ah. She really wanted to test me. Fine.

"Then I won’t take you to the base anymore."

Her mouth dropped open. "You wouldn’t dare."

I leaned against her doorframe, tapping my chin thoughtfully. "Oh, I would. And I could go lower for you, you know. So much lower."

"You’re being petty," she hissed, but I saw the faint twitch of her lips.

Damn it. She was trying not to smile.

I put a hand to my chest like a melodramatic poet and sighed. "It’s not pettiness. It’s passion. Deep, desperate, decaying passion."

"You sound like you need a therapist," she muttered, but the meanness in her voice had dulled.

"I need you," I corrected, and yes, maybe I let it dangle a bit too long.

After a long, dragging moment of silence and internal debate—which I absolutely won by standing there looking tragic and pitiful, she finally exhaled hard, rolling her eyes.

"Fine. But you sleep on top of the sheets. Clothes on. No creeping into my space, or I’ll scream and wake the whole pack."

"Deal," I grinned, already halfway through the door before she could change her mind. "And for the record, your bed has better vibes than mine."

....

The room smelled like wildflowers and guilt. Mostly hers, probably. There was a faint sweetness in the air, like she’d used too much lavender detergent trying to erase the scent of her old life and secrets.

The room that bastard Mateo gave her was small, modest, worn—but María José had a way of claiming and making things all hers without even trying. Innocently.

This room was now hers. And now I was in it.

She had a little lamp that illuminated a gold hue on the walls. I didn’t deserve to be bathed in such a forgiving light.

Still, I walked around like I owned the place.

She sat on the edge of the bed stiffly, then gave me a look that could blister skin. "Don’t get ideas."

Too late.

When I didn’t respond, she gave me the sternest look she could muster. "Stay. On. Your. Side."

"Yes, ma’am."

I slid onto the bed dramatically, as if it were the most delicate throne. "Look. I didn’t even wrinkle your sheet. I’m a ghost."

"You’re an idiot," she muttered, but she was smiling.

"Finally. A compliment."

That earned a snort. Then a small giggle. And it was like a match lit in the dark.

I grinned and kicked off my boots. So what ideas were you talking about? Like the idea that we could build a little pillow wall down the middle like teenagers at a sleepover?"

She rolled her eyes. "You’re ridiculous."

"And you’re adorable when you try to act tough."

She narrowed her eyes but didn’t say anything else. Instead, she tucked her knees under the blanket and leaned against the headboard. I watched the way the lamplight kissed her cheekbones and tried not to stare like a madman. But it was hard.

To distract myself—and maybe charm her a little more, I started talking. "You ever heard the story of the young wolf who loved his father more than life itself?"

She blinked, then shook her head. "No."

"Well," I said, sliding down to sit at the very edge of the bed, keeping my promise of space, "this wolf... he adored his father. Strong Alpha. Taught him everything. Like the kind of Alpha everyone respected. The young wolf worshiped him."

She nodded silently, eyes on me now.

"But the young wolf also loved his uncle. Trusted him. Looked up to him, even. He thought they were a family. Until the day his uncle drove a blade through his father’s heart... and gave his own son the life the young wolf deserved."

The room went silent.

Her lips parted. "That’s horrible."

"It was. The young wolf was so shocked, so broken... he couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. He became nothing but a husk. A ghost in his own home." I whispered, trying hard to swallow the pain as I journeyed through memory lane.

I turned my head to look at her.

"But deep inside, something prevailed. And one day, that young wolf is going to come out of hiding. And he’s going to take back everything that was stolen from him."

She blinked, slowly. Then she smiled.

"I’m proud of him," the words escaped her lips so effortlessly and innocently, but they did a number on me.

I stiffened.

She was proud? Of... me?

No one had ever said that to me. Not once. Not the devil that was my master. Not even my mother, before Tomas killed her. I’d been called many things. Weapon. Curse. Demon.

But never... never worthy of pride.

I swallowed a knot in my throat and turned my head away. I couldn’t let her see what that did to me. How my chest swelled with an ache I didn’t know what to do with. I clenched my jaw.

She yawned suddenly, her head tilting gently toward me. "Tell him... to never forget who he is."

And then... she drifted off.

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