Make Me Yours - The Alpha's Omega Mate

CHAPTER 2

The word mate does not fade once it forms, and it does not soften or settle into something manageable, because it sits in my chest like something heavy and alive, and even after Declan closes the office door behind him and the room seals us in together, I can still feel it stretching between us, invisible and tight, like a thread pulled too hard that refuses to snap no matter how much I try to ignore it.

Ezra does not look shocked, and that is the first thing that makes anger rise hotter than the bond itself, because while I am standing here trying to steady my breathing and keep my wolf from lunging toward him in recognition, he looks composed, almost analytical, like this is an outcome he calculated years ago and simply waited for the timing to align.

“You knew,” I say slowly, because the realization is settling into place piece by piece and I need to hear him confirm it.

He leans back slightly in his chair and studies me with the kind of calm that belongs to someone who has already decided how this conversation ends.

“I’ve known for six years.”

The words hit like a physical shove, and for a second the air feels thinner in my lungs.

Six years means he knew when I was twelve and still braiding my hair before school, when I followed my father around the yard asking questions about patrol routes and defensive stances, when our house still stood tall and my mother still smiled without forcing it, and while our status was being stripped away layer by layer and we were pushed toward the edge of the territory, he was sitting in this packhouse carrying that knowledge like it was nothing more than a quiet footnote.

“You knew,” I repeat, and my hands curl at my sides because the betrayal feels sharper than the bond.

“I wasn’t going to tell a child we were mates,” he replies evenly, and there is no apology in his tone, just logic and authority and a faint edge of irritation that I am framing this as something he should feel guilty for.

The bond pulses again, warm and insistent, like it is trying to soften the edges of his words, but I shove it down violently because I refuse to let biology rewrite history for me.

“You should’ve rejected me then,” I snap, because at least that would have been clean and final, and I could have grieved it and rebuilt something else instead of standing here now feeling like something inevitable just locked into place without my consent.

His jaw tightens slightly, but his posture does not shift.

“I’m not rejecting you.”

The certainty in his voice makes my wolf stir again, and I hate that part of me leans toward him instinctively even while my mind screams to stay back and remember every loss tied to this building.

“You don’t get to keep me,” I tell him, stepping forward despite myself, “not after what your family did to mine, and not after sitting on this for six years like I was something you could store away until convenient.”

Something flickers in his eyes then, something sharper and less controlled, but it disappears almost immediately beneath the discipline of an Alpha who learned young how to seal cracks before anyone else sees them.

“My father made decisions for the pack,” he says, his tone cooling further, “and I was not Alpha.”

“But you are now,” I fire back, and the air in the room feels heavier with every word, “and you haven’t changed anything for us, so don’t pretend you’re separate from it.”

Silence stretches between us, thick and deliberate, and hierarchy presses down on my shoulders in a way that is almost physical, because no matter how angry I am and no matter how right I feel, he is still my Alpha and this office is built to remind me of that fact.

“This is how it’s going to work,” he says finally, and the shift in tone makes my stomach drop because this is no longer a conversation, it is a declaration.

My pulse spikes, but I force myself to hold his gaze.

“You will not tell anyone we are mates,” he continues calmly, “we will live separate lives publicly, and when I need you at the packhouse, you will come without argument.”

I stare at him because the audacity of it almost makes me laugh.

“I am not your summons,” I say, my voice low and steady despite the tremor in my chest.

“That’s exactly what you are,” he replies without hesitation, and the bluntness of it lands harder than if he had tried to soften it.

Humiliation settles cold in my ribs, tangled with the bond and with the memory of my father’s loyalty and the way this pack reduced us without blinking, and for a second I feel twelve again, standing in our yard while officials measured boundaries that were no longer ours.

Before I can respond, the office door swings open without a knock and perfume floods the room in a sharp floral wave.

Gianna walks in like she belongs here and like she already sees herself sitting behind that desk one day, and her gaze lands on me immediately with open contempt.

“What is she doing here,” she asks, her voice laced with disdain as her eyes sweep over me like I am something tracked in on the bottom of a boot.

Ezra does not push her away when she crosses the room and slides onto his lap, and he does not hesitate when she loops her arm around his neck and presses close enough to make the gesture unmistakable.

The sight burns in a way I was not prepared for, not because I love him and not because I forgive him, but because the bond does not care about logic and watching another female draped over him sends something feral clawing up my spine.

“She got into a fight at school,” Ezra says smoothly, as if I am a minor inconvenience and not the girl who just felt her entire future shift inside this room.

Gianna huffs softly and presses closer to him.

“Trash will act like trash,” she mutters, and the curl of her lip makes my wolf bare its teeth inside me even if my body remains still.

My nails dig into my palms hard enough to sting, and the bond pulses harder as if it is trying to pull me forward instead of letting me walk away.

Declan clears his throat quietly near the door, and Ezra looks back at me with a finality that makes my stomach twist.

“You’re dismissed.”

The word lands like an order, not permission, and I turn without another word because if I stay I will either scream or attack and neither option ends well for me inside this building.

Declan follows me down the hallway in silence, and the air outside feels colder when the doors close behind us.

“I know everything,” he says once we reach the front steps.

I glance at him sharply.

“You’re the only one,” he continues, “and it needs to stay that way, because if this becomes public before he decides the timing, it will not go in your favor.”

The implication hangs heavy between us.

“Otherwise,” he adds quietly, “this ends badly for you.”

I nod once because I understand hierarchy even if I resent it, and secrets are safer when the powerful hold them.

I do not go back to school, because I cannot sit in a classroom pretending nothing shifted inside me, and instead I walk toward town because I need distance from the packhouse and from his scent and from the fact that my mate just declared me a hidden convenience.

The café smells like fried food and coffee and overworked bodies, and Mom moves between tables quickly while smiling at customers who do not look at her long enough to see the exhaustion behind her eyes.

I sit at the counter and watch a man snap his fingers at her because his order is not fast enough, and I swallow down the urge to throw something at him because starting a fight in here will only cost her.

Carter steps out of the kitchen with clean plates balanced in his hands, and when he sees me his face softens in a way that feels uncomplicated and steady.

“Birthday girl,” he says lightly.

I shrug because the word feels hollow now.

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

He leans against the counter for a second, close enough that his presence feels solid without being possessive.

“You’ll figure it out,” he says quietly, and there is no agenda in his tone, no strategy and no hidden calculus.

For a moment, I believe him.

When I leave the café later, the alley behind it is narrow and damp, and I am halfway through when a familiar scent makes my steps slow and my spine straighten.

Madison steps out from behind a dumpster, her arm in a cast and her eyes furious.

Sam moves beside her, and three more figures shift behind me until the exit is blocked.

John.

David.

Luke.

The alley feels smaller instantly.

“You think you can embarrass me,” Madison says, her voice sharp with humiliation, “and just walk away like nothing happened.”

My pulse spikes, but I do not step back because Dad taught me that retreat without strategy is surrender.

I shift my weight subtly, calculating distance and angles because assessment is survival, and I watch Sam crack his knuckles like he has been waiting for this moment all day.

They do not wait for a signal.

They rush.