Mated to Her Alpha Instructor Chapter 80

Eileen

I had just finished clearing the dinner dishes when Mother's sharp voice cut through the kitchen. "Gareth needs his bandages changed. Go upstairs now."

My hands stilled over the washbasin. I dried them on the frayed towel, then gathered my medical supplies—clean gauze, salve, a basin of warm water. *Just get through tonight,* I told myself as I climbed the stairs. *Check the wound, make sure there's no infection risk, and then I can leave.*

This would be the last time I played the dutiful daughter. Once I confirmed Gareth was stable enough to manage his own recovery, I would message Regis properly, pack my things, and walk out of this house. The girl who automatically obeyed every command was done.

Gareth's room smelled of sweat and blood. He lay propped against the headboard, scowling. "About time. Were you daydreaming about that pathetic Beta again?"

I didn't respond. Showing emotion would only please him. I'd learned my lesson the day he read my diary—since then, I never write at home. And Derek was so far in my past the mention barely registered.

I set my supplies on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed. "I need to check for infection. Try not to move."

I began unwrapping the soiled bandages, my movements efficient despite my exhaustion. The sooner I finished, the sooner I could send Regis a real explanation and start counting down the hours until I could leave.

I leaned forward to reach the gauze on the far corner of the nightstand. My body angled across Gareth's, arm extending—and I felt it. The subtle slide of silk against skin, the loosening of the scarf I'd been wearing constantly since I returned home.

The scarf Regis had given me to hide his mark.

Cold air touched my neck.

My heart stopped.

---

"What the hell is *that*?"

Mother stood in the doorway. Before I could react, before I could adjust the scarf, she was across the room. Her fingers dug into my shoulder and yanked me upright. I stumbled, my hand flying to my neck, but she slapped it away and ripped the scarf aside entirely.

I stood frozen as her eyes fixed on the mark—the clear crescent shape of teeth, healed into smooth scar tissue.

She leaned in close, inhaling deeply, searching for the scent that should accompany such a mark. But there was nothing. The suppression salve I'd been using had masked Regis's cedar and mint completely, leaving only my own chamomile and the faint herbal tang of treatment.

Her expression shifted from shock to something worse—cold, vicious satisfaction.

"There's no scent." Her voice dropped dangerously low. "You let some *nobody* use you, didn't you? Some weak-blooded mongrel who didn't even have the spine to properly claim you—who just took what he wanted and left you with *this*."

"That's not—" The words caught in my throat.

Every instinct screamed at me to defend him, to defend *us*. But a cold clarity settled over me. If I told them the truth—if I said Regis's name, explained who he was—they would never let it go. Mother's eyes were already calculating. If she knew I was bonded to an Alpha heir, to the future head of the Vane family, she would show up at the academy. She would demand to meet him, to "discuss our future"—which really meant negotiate what she could extract from the connection. They would latch onto him like parasites, turning something beautiful into another transaction.

I wouldn't do that to him.

So I swallowed the truth and said nothing.

"I always knew you were stupid, Eileen, but this?" Mother shoved me backward. I stumbled into the nightstand, jars rattling. Pain shot through my hip where it struck the wooden edge, but I barely noticed through the roaring in my ears. "Get yourself cleaned up. Then come back and finish treating your brother properly."

She grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my skin as she dragged me out of Gareth's room and down the hall toward my own. I tried to pull free, but her grip was iron.

"Let go—"

"You will *not* speak." She yanked open my door and shoved me inside so hard I nearly fell. "Stay here until I decide what to do with you."

The door slammed. I heard the scrape of furniture—she was pushing something against it from the outside. Trapping me in.

I stood in the center of my cramped room, breathing hard, one hand pressed to my neck where the mark still burned from her scrutiny. Through the thin walls, I could hear her stomping back toward Gareth's room, her voice shrill with false concern as she cooed over her precious son.

My legs gave out. I sank onto the edge of my narrow bed, staring at nothing.

*I should message Regis.* The thought cut through the numbness. *Tell him what happened. Ask him to come get me.*

But when I reached for my communicator on the desk, it wasn't there.

My heart lurched. I stood quickly, scanning the surface—books, old medical notes, a chipped mug I used for tea. No communicator.

I checked the floor. The windowsill. Under the bed.

Nothing.

She must have taken it. While I was in Gareth's room, or perhaps just now when she dragged me here—I'd been too disoriented to notice. But she had it. She had my only way to contact him.

The realization hit like a physical blow. I couldn't call for help. Couldn't send a message. Couldn't even let him know I was trapped here.

I sat back down heavily, wrapping my arms around myself. The bond hummed faintly in my chest—still there, still connecting us—but I'd never learned how to send clear thoughts through it. I could feel his presence, sense his emotions when they were strong enough, but actual *communication*? That required skill I didn't have.

*He'll notice when I don't respond,* I told myself. *He'll worry. He'll come looking.*

But would he? We'd only been truly bonded for such a short time. Maybe he'd think I was just busy with family matters, that I'd message when I could. Maybe he'd respect what he thought was my need for space.

The moonlight streaming through my small window seemed to mock me with its beauty. Somewhere out there, the bond stretched between us like a silver thread. But what good was a thread when I couldn't make it carry words?

I lay down on my side, facing the window, one hand resting over my abdomen where our child grew. *I'm sorry,* I thought, not sure if I was apologizing to Regis or to the baby or to myself. *I'm so sorry.*

Hours crawled by. I heard Mother return to her room, heard the low murmur of my parents' voices through the wall. They were discussing me, I was sure. Planning what to do about their disappointing daughter who'd managed to get herself marked by some nameless wolf.

Around midnight, the tears finally came. Silent, bitter, soaking into my thin pillow. I cried for the years I'd wasted trying to earn their love. For the childhood I'd spent making myself small and quiet and useful. For the daughter I'd never stopped being, even when I should have walked away long ago.

But I also cried because I was *angry*. Furious, in a way I'd never let myself be before. How dare they treat me like property? How dare they assume the worst of me, of the bond I shared with someone who actually *valued* me?

Regis had told me I was allowed to be angry. That I didn't always have to be gentle and accommodating. And he was right.

I sat up, wiping my face roughly. The crying had helped, in a strange way. It had cleared something inside me, made room for resolve.

I couldn't contact Regis. But I could take back some control.

Tomorrow morning, I would get my communicator back. I didn't care if I had to search every inch of this house. And then I would leave. With or without their blessing.

I'd spent twenty years being their obedient daughter. That girl was gone now.