The Alpha's Warlock (Mismatched Mates #1)

by Eliot Grayson

I was probably going to die in a place that looked like a set designer from That 70s Show threw up everywhere.

“You know what they say about assumptions.” “Yeah, you're already an ass,” Ian shot back.

So maybe they had a few things in common, despite Matthew's dark hair and slightly less-huge build and general ability not to be a dick.

But the way he looked right then, a flicker of a whisker away from wolfing out completely and ripping my entrails out, I couldn't blame myself too much.

“Okay.” He blew out a long breath. “I can try to be polite if you can. But.” He fixed me with a steely look. “If you get Pop-Tart crumbs in the bed, I'll rip your fucking throat out.”

I put mine down too, with a little more force. Okay, if we're being honest, I threw it at him and he dodged, and it clattered onto the floor.

because wards on the boundary were the first page in Holding Your Territory for Dummies.

Lol!!

I wished I hadn't thrown my spoon, because I wanted it back. It would work pretty well for whacking the top of his head. I reached for his, and he grabbed it before I could get to it. “Ten points for good instincts with the spoon, Ian. Minus a million for leaving your territory boundary totally unprotected. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Since the clothes I'd arrived in were still in a sodden, ripped-up lump on the floor of Ian’s bathroom waiting for a washing machine that hadn’t been bought yet,

I was on a roll! Kicking alpha ass and taking names.

After this was over, I promised myself I was never going hiking again. Nothing even hiking-adjacent. The farthest I was going to walk was from a nice warm car into a Starbucks and back again, and if I got flabby and pale, or flabbier and paler as the case may be, so fucking be it.

I was like a bad supernatural country song, all wanting to be loved and sad that my werewolf ran away. Or something.

I was so, so done with decapitation for one day. And I sure as hell wasn’t joining the severed-head clean-up crew.

If alpha mating instincts meant they washed you in all the hot water and then uncomplainingly took cold showers on their own, I couldn’t believe everyone didn’t want one.

I turned my head and propped my chin on his chest, ignoring him when he winced and squirmed a little. Yes, I had a pointy chin. No, I did not care.

That wasn’t perfect, but for an alpha…yeah, that was the equivalent of rolling over and showing his belly. I’d take it. For now. There was no limit to the number of his socks I’d destroy, enchant in strange and itchy ways, or otherwise misappropriate if he fucked up on this, but for now, I’d take it.