Chapter 35
The alpha threw a mocking salute to Rafe and sauntered out.
After being frozen in disbelief through the entire encounter, Rafe found movement again upon hearing the click of the lock engaging. He hauled himself out of the chair and stumbled to the bathroom. Sinking to the floor in front of the toilet, he opened the lid and retched again and again, imagining his body was trying to rid itself of the horrors of the day. He hadn’t been given any food, so all he brought up was bile and the water he’d drunk.
At last his stomach quieted, and he collapsed against the tub. Tears threatened to overflow as he relived what had just happened.
Was this going to be his life from now on? A sex slave and breeder to a Neanderthal? Why hadn’t he played nice with the young alpha? Rafe could have handled the neophyte or, at least, made him listen to reason.
Better yet, he should have cooperated with Grant. He moaned and slouched lower as he relived their one night spent together. The lightest touch from Grant had aroused him and had captivated his omega side. Would it have been so bad to be mated to Grant? Stodgy, addicted to the rules, and all alpha, he was still a decent man.
But Rafe had fallen back on his childhood reflex to escape. Before his mother had gotten herself and Rafe out for good, his father’s alpha protective instincts had twisted into something ugly and dangerous, triggering insane demands and terrible bouts of rage. Most of the memories of that time were gone, leaving only fragments and a deep sense of disquiet. But what he couldn’t seem to let go of was the ingrained response to run from anyone threatening to exert control over him.
Didn’t matter. It was too late now.
He’d denied his nature for too long, convincing himself he didn’t need an alpha. He sure as hell needed one now—one particular by-the-book alpha with storm gray eyes. The same one Rafe had been foolish enough to run from.
He was screwed—or at least was soon to be, over and over. And in the throes of heat, he’d beg the bastard to rape him.
Damn it, Grant, where are you?
Drowning in self-pity and despair, Rafe curled up on the cold tile floor and sobbed for all he was about to lose and all he was about to endure. 19
Grant shielded his eyes against the morning sun and peered at the tired stucco building with its pothole-filled parking lot and its faded two-word sign that read Sales Office. This couldn’t be the infamous auction site, could it? Uncertain, he was about to call Janet and verify the address when he caught sight of a mustard-colored flag on the roof—the company symbol. This was the place.
He gazed around, noting exits and potential hiding places. Catching a glimpse of a beautiful red Ferrari tucked into a carport at the back corner of the building, his lips thinned. Rich rewards indeed.
Rafael had been right about everything. For years, Grant had been an unwitting accomplice to the slave trade. Guilt washed through him, bringing heat to his cheeks and regret to his heart. Of course, after the day was through, Grant might not have to worry about doing his job. Prison seemed a much more likely end to his career. But whatever the consequences, he had to rescue his Rafael.
He marched to the door, prepared to do battle, and rang the bell.
“Can I help you?” The arctic voice had floated from a speaker above his head.
“I’m Grant Tenereth of the Omega Council. I need to speak with Mr. Channing.”
“Mr. Channing never sees anyone without an appointment. I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.”
Chiding himself for forgetting how this whole charade was supposed to work, Grant offered up his slave trade credentials. “I was recommended by Mr. Lowther, at the facility. He assured me I would be welcome here.”
“One moment, please.”
Grant spent the next three endless minutes shifting from one foot to the other, wiping his sweaty hands on his pants, and telling himself to remain calm, professional, and not kick in the damned door.
At last the voice resumed, considerably thawed. “Thank you for your patience, Mr. Tenereth. Please come in.” A buzzer sounded.
Grant opened the door, stepped inside, and stopped short. This was a high-priced meat market? It looked like the waiting room for a small, struggling sales office, like the sign said. The plastic potted palm in the corner was dusty; the desktop computer was a good ten years out of date; the frayed carpet and smoke-stained walls screamed cheap rental. Had he and Janet gotten it all wrong?
The receptionist came out from behind the desk to greet him, and all doubt vanished. His tutored eyes pegged the woman’s tailored navy business suit and Louboutin pumps at an easy ten grand. His mother had always had a taste for the best designer clothing, and he’d learned early on to distinguish couture from off-the-rack. The shabby office was nothing but window dressing after all.