Soho She’d locked him in. Alexander bit into the cuff encircling his left wrist and growled. Nothing. Not even a pinprick indentation. Clearly, his fangs were no match for metal. Unlike his strength. Slow and steady, he sat up on the bed, taking the headboard with him. The loud, aching creak of it mimicking his insides, his unfulfilled hunger – the cry of desertion he refused to utter. His vixen, his sweet cocktease, his beautiful and truest mate had lost her mind, her senses and her own forthcoming orgasm five minutes ago and had left him – had locked his unclimaxed ass in the cold, dark cell that had once upon a time been his cheerless lair for self punishment and feeding, but had, over the many months, become a den for sexual play between them. And all because he’d been unable to lie. Again. Unable to lie, and for the first time, unable to give his mate something she wanted - his acceptance – his blanket willingness to become a parent. Snarling, Alex yanked at the cuff, bending the bedpost into a perfect upside down V. Didn’t she understand him at all? Creating a life, a balas – it was too much, too precious. He could not hold such a gift, protect such a gift with the sour, unbeating heart he possessed. At this moment in time, he had nothing to offer a child, no stories or traditions to pass on – nothing but the tales of a balas so unloved by its parents it had turned to the rats in its cage for affection. Didn’t Sara understand that his mother and her mate had grown an animal – not a nurturer – NOT a father. Again, Alexander jerked at the metal, so fiercely this time the cuff snapped off and went flying into his face. He barely felt the sting.
