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He should have been happy for her. Did he not once encourage her to lay with Mordecai? But the warmth he felt spread over him was not borne of happiness, but anger, and her question was met with extended silence, the flesh on his muzzle twitching with the need to express it.

He should have been happy for her, but instead he felt betrayed, and loathed that the world seemed bent on taking from him. He suddenly, irrationally, came to feel that he was a mere pawn in someone else's game, a side dish, that he was not even the main character of his own story. Even his lover had a mate and children. Now Harlyn, with Mordecai, was due to have hers.

It was his own fault. He had lead a carefree life, going with the flow, letting things happen and never once taking the steps to make what he wanted happen. No more. It was as if the answer had been written in the fur on her stomach, and finally he lifted his gaze from it. His gray eyes, sharp with focus and burning, met hers.

He stepped toward her, and again, until his breath, half-held as tension gripped his ribs, bathed her nose. "Nothing." It was said firmly. It was what he had to do. He had to take back control. He had relinquished most, but what had been left was violently taken from him, and that was the catalyst to his downward spiral.

He shifted and suddenly pressed his muzzle into the side of her neck, noisily inhaling her scent in one long breath. "You should have been mine," he hissed lowly.