The Forty-Eighth — The altar claiming from Rhystan's POV
The Second Claiming — When he broke his chains for her
The Rut — Eight months later. Three days. Nineteen orgasms.
The Beast Chained — An alternate version where he's the sacrifice
She's looking at me like I'm the prey.
This one isn't going to die. This one is going to ruin me.
And I can't fucking wait.
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Excerpt: Rejected Exile
Feeling sorry for myself, I put enough bottles of liquor into my cart to eat away half a paycheck. The bar cabinet in the dining room is empty, I tell myself. People will want to come by to have drinks and reminisce about the dead alpha. I'll need to have something on hand. Truthfully, I'm just aimlessly searching for something here that will make me forget what happened to me.
As I stray near a section in the back with strange, small bottles of clear liquor, a voice startles me. "Yuja is the best chamisul flavor. Some people like the plum, but I think it's too sweet."
Whirling around, I blink up into cool brown eyes that light up a face curved with a wicked smile. A tall man with honey brown skin stands in front of me, his fashionably-cut black hair shiny and sleek as it curves behind his ears. He has slightly delicate features and a strong jaw, his monolid eyes topped with thick black brows.
Plus he's absolutely fucking gorgeous. A stunning lovechild of Jesse Williams and Henry Golding. He looks like he should be wearing a suit and posing on the red carpet, not standing in a liquor store in the middle of Juniper. In fact, the seeminglycasual outfit he's wearing, of dark-washed blue jeans and a black button-up, somehow screams style in its simplicity. I get the sense that he knows the difference between a single and double-breasted suit jacket.
I can't seem to find words to say to him. Especially when I realize I'm standing here with seven—no, eight, for fuck's sake—handles of liquor in my cart.
"This isn't all for me," I blurt out, like some kind of goddamned idiot. For some reason this makes the man grin so widely I nearly fall over in stunned attraction to him. "I'm, uh, having a party. Well, more like a wake. A—a respectful wake! Err, or, well, a drunk one..."
Stop now, Delilah. He's never going to want to see you naked. Hell, he probably didn't before you opened your mouth. The man is just being nice to you—he knows you're having a mental breakdown in a liquor store.
Or if he didn't before, he does now.
"Don't worry about it. I never judge how much a lady is purchasing in alcohol sales." Turning to the shelf, the man draws his finger across several bottles covered in writing I don't recognize, and stops at one with a painting of a blueberry and brush script on it. "If you're looking for something that'll get you fucked up without you even noticing you're drinking alcohol, this is the stuff. Just be warned—it's not that alcoholic seltzer they sell around here. It's far more potent."
"What... is it?"
"Soju. A Korean rice wine." He grabs two of the small bottles and places them in my cart, where they clink against all the other bottles. I cringe and wish for a trap door to open up in the ground beneath me. "That should get your respectful wake going quite nicely."
"Uh—thanks." Lamely, I admit, "I'm not really having a wake. Well, I probably will—whether I want to or not—I'm just kind of prepared for it to happen one way or another."
"Gotcha." He rocks back on his heels, watching me idly, until I start to wonder if there's something on my face. "Sorry for your loss? Or congratulations, if it's your mortal nemesis whose wake you're holding."
