Chapter 8 MY WOLF WANTS HIM
Sebastian’s Pov
Three days passed, and I didn’t hear a word from Ragnar. No messengers, no visits, nothing. As I damn well suspected.
I went about my life, taking odd jobs at the market, scrubbing dishes, hauling crates, anything to keep my mind off him. But it didn’t work. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him— his face, his body, the way he’d looked at me in his room.
And every night, I was terrified of dreaming about him again.
That first night had been bad enough. I wasn’t sure I could handle another one so I was barely sleeping.
Alisander was getting restless. By the third day, he was practically clawing at my mind, pushing me to do something. “You can’t just sit here,” he said while I was sweeping the floor of my room. “You need to go to him.”
“No,” I said, gripping the broom tighter. “I already told you, I’m not doing it. He doesn’t care about me. He called me a lad, remember? A lad! Like I’m some kid who amused him for five minutes.”
For some reason, I just couldn’t let that stupid word go.
“He felt the bond,” Alisander insisted. “I know he did. You saw how he acted after. He was different. He asked if you were mated. That’s not nothing.”
This same dead horse again. Neither of us were willing to budge.
“It’s nothing,” I said, sweeping harder. “He was just curious.”
“You’re making excuses,” Alisander said. “You’re scared, and you’re letting your pride get in the way. Go to the pack house. Talk to him. Let him see you again.”
Of course, I’m letting my pride stop me. He threw me out!
“I’m not doing that,” I said, stopping to glare at the wall. “What am I supposed to do? Walk up to him and say, ‘Hey, Alpha, remember me? The omega who gave you a blow job? Wanna hang out?”
Yeah, that’ll go well.
“You could start by telling him your name,” Alisander said, his voice dry. “You didn’t even do that last time.”
I groaned, dropping the broom. Goddamn wolves not understanding the intricacies of the human side of a pairing. I hope Ragnar’s wolf was giving him grief too. Or maybe he didn’t care either.
“Why are you so pushy about this? It’s the mate bond, isn’t it? You’re just trying to make me do something stupid so you can be near him.”
“It’s not stupid,” Alisander said. “It’s fate. You’re his mate, Sebastian. You can’t ignore that forever.”
“Watch me,” I said, picking up my sketchpad again. I flipped to a blank page and started drawing, my pencil scratching against the paper. “I’ll ignore him for as long as he ignores me.”
Alisander went quiet again, but I could feel his frustration, like a low hum in the back of my mind. I ignored it and focused on my drawing, trying to lose myself in the lines and shadows.
A few minutes later I tossed the pen down with a grunt. I’d wanted to draw something serene to help calm me down but somehow it had morphed into Ragnar’s face.
Fucking great.
_
Ragnar had always been ever-present in my peripheral but lately, he’d become a hand around my throat. Three more days passed, I’d begun to count.
It wasn’t easy. Every morning, I dragged myself to the market square, picking up whatever menial jobs I could find— hauling crates, scrubbing stalls, sweeping floors. Anything to keep my hands busy and my mind off him.
My wolf, Alisander, didn’t say anything. He’d been even quieter recently, but I could feel him pacing in my head, restless and annoyed.
By evening, I’d stumble back to my little cottage, my body sore and my pockets a little heavier. I’d collapse at my desk and draw, stopping when my pencil started scratching out Ragnar’s face without me even thinking about it. It was like he was burned into my brain, and no amount of dishwater or dust could wash him out.
Then I’d sigh, toss the half sketch away, have a quick shower and collapse into bed, fighting sleep until I eventually lost.
Day seven. One week.
I was at the market square again, unloading a cart of vegetables for one of the vendors. I was halfway through stacking potatoes when I noticed a crowd gathered around a wooden post near the center of the square.
People were murmuring, pointing at a piece of paper nailed to it, taking pictures. I wiped my hands on my pants and wandered over, curious.
“What’s going on?” I asked a guy standing nearby, some beta I recognized from the pack.
“Guard tryouts,” he said, not even looking at me. “Alpha Ragnar is looking for new guards to work at the pack house.”
My stomach flipped at the sound of Ragnar’s name. I pushed through the crowd to get a better look at the notice. The words were written in bold, black ink, and I read them over. “Guard tryouts,” it said. “Alpha Ragnar seeks strong, capable men and women to serve in the pack house. Candidates must be heavily built, well-muscled, tall and brave. Previous war experience is a bonus. Benefits include a monthly salary, meals, and living quarters in the pack house.”
The benefits were exciting. They meant I wouldn’t have to work my fingers to the bone everyday. I briefly wondered what happened to the other guards whose positions we were getting offered. Were they fired? I hadn’t heard of any guards getting fired. Maybe they were moved.
It didn’t matter. Not really. I stared at the paper, my little bit of hope sinking. “Heavily built, well-muscled, tall,,” I muttered, reading the list again. “Fought in a war? Yeah, right. The only thing I may have is bravery for even thinking about trying this.”
I was eighteen, about five-foot-ten, and while I wasn’t as scrawny anymore, I was nowhere near ‘heavily built’. And the closest I’d come to a fight, much less a war, was dodging a drunk beta who’d swung at me in the market last year.
“Forget it,” I said under my breath, turning to walk away. “No way I’m even close to what he’s looking for.” The idea of being near Ragnar, living in the pack house, seeing him every day— it would be a dream. Plus the food and the money. Gods, that would be awesome.
It was a dream, one that had no chance at reality. I didn’t fit a single one of those qualities. I was an Omega, smaller and weaker, with no business pretending I could be a guard.
“You should try,” Alisander said, his voice sharp in my head.
I rolled my eyes. Here we go again.