Page 95 of Psycho Beasts
She continued, “Plus, the four men you walked in with are glaring at me like you’re their fated mate and they want to murder me for hurting you. Show them you’re capable.”
I shook my head. “They don’t care about me. Trust me, they hate me because I didn’t form a pack with them. They’ve already moved on. Also, what’s a fated mate?”
Molly squinted like she was surprised I didn’t know.
“In the old days, when the moon goddess walked among us, packs were made of predestined mates. But she left this realm. Rumor has it because of a war, and there hasn’t been a fated mate since.”
A soft hand patted my head comfortingly.
“Don’t worry about that, sugar. If mates are fated, it’s obvious among all members when they bond. Since they’re already a pack, you definitely aren’t fated to them. The bond wouldn’t let them complete it without you.”
The small kindle of hope in my chest extinguished with a sizzle.
Molly smiled kindly. “Still doesn’t mean they don’t want you. Remember, hate is obsession, and obsession is the purest form of love. You never move on, and it festers within you until it’s all you know and all you can focus on. It becomes your only hope. But sometimes, it’s not enough, and everything falls apart around you.”
I was still gasping on the floor.
Something in her tone was off, and I tilted my head up to look into her kind brown eyes.
Someone had hurt her.
“Wow,” I said. “If you’re into me, you can just say that.”
A loud laugh burst from the larger woman, and she slammed her hand across my back.
I grimaced and pretended she hadn’t just cracked three of my ribs and punctured a lung.
“Oh, you’re definitely not my type.” She placed her hands on her knees and laughed until I was thoroughly offended.
I mean, I didn’t think Molly was actually into me, didn’t even know if she was into women, but she just didn’t have to be so rude about it.
“You know, some people think I’m a catch,” I grumbled after we passed the five-minute mark of Molly gasping for air.
My words caused her to double over in a fresh round of chuckling.
I thought about it and realized I couldn’t remember if anyone had ever told me I was pretty.
Cobra had always said he wanted to own me. Ascher called me a princess (slightly weird; I always assumed he had some royalty fetish). Jax called me “little alpha,” and Xerxes referred to me as an alpha.
Suddenly, it seemed super important that no one ever told me I was pretty.
Was I hideous? Was that part of why it was so easy for all the men to stop fighting for me?
I’d just been a novelty to them, and now that I wasn’t unique, they were over it.
Also, why was I acting like a vain, prissy bitch when I was literally in the middle of Mafia training?
I couldn’t help but glance over to the other fighting ring, where Clarissa was doing push-ups. She was glistening like a goddess.
Meanwhile, my hands kept slipping because I was lying in a puddle of stinky sweat. Every time I sniffed myself, I gagged from the rancid stench.
I’d forgotten deodorant.
In contrast, Clarissa probably smelled like flowers and lemon. She was tall, with muscles, not a hair out of place, and looked like the perfect complement to the massive athletic builds of the men.
Finally, Molly stopped having a heart attack over the idea of finding me attractive and said, “You know, I’m aware that you’ve been lying there resting and not doing your push-ups.”
Damn it.