Rejected By My Mate; Claimed By Lycan Quadruplets Chapter 37

Bryan’s POV

The morning sun filtered lazily through the drapes, casting stripes of golden light across my room like it was trying to cheer me up. Joke’s on the sun. I wasn’t in the mood for any celestial pep talk. My head throbbed with the force of a thousand drummers, and my throat felt like sandpaper. Classic aftermath of a night spent drinking myself into oblivion.

I rolled out of bed with a groan, feet hitting the cold floor as I trudged toward the bathroom. The reflection in the mirror didn’t look as horrible as I felt, but it was close. I splashed water on my face and took a quick, hot shower, letting the water pound against the back of my neck. If only it could wash away the memory of yesterday’s humiliation.

My body still ached from being tossed around like a ragdoll on a horse. That stupid horse and that smug bastard of an alpha whose son apparently was born on a saddle. The way they laughed... The way Father clenched his jaw... I rubbed at the dull pain in my shoulder, jaw tight as I dressed up in a simple black shirt and dark jeans.

Maybe food would make me feel slightly human again. I descended the stairs, the scent of fresh bread, roasted beef, and fried eggs wafting through the hallway, teasing my senses. The maids bowed slightly as I entered the dining hall, and one of them hurried over to ask if I wanted the usual.

"Get me hangover soup,” I muttered, dragging a chair back and slumping down in it. “Extra spicy.”

She nodded and disappeared, just as my hands found the silver cutlery on the table. I poured myself some water and sipped slowly, trying to keep the nausea at bay. The dishes were lined up—scrambled eggs, grilled sausages, bread rolls, roasted potatoes, and whatever else they thought would make my morning better. None of it helped my mood.

Just as I picked up my fork, I heard a voice behind me. One I would rather never hear before breakfast—or ever again.

“Still alive, Bryan? Thought you’d be in the infirmary after yesterday’s performance.”

Knox.

I closed my eyes briefly. Just one morning. That’s all I asked. One morning without being mocked, judged, or compared to someone else's perfect offspring. Was that too much?

I didn’t turn around. Didn’t acknowledge him. I shoved a piece of egg into my mouth and focused on chewing slowly. If I ignored him long enough, maybe he’d get bored and walk away. But no, this was Knox. He lived for the sound of his own voice.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” he continued, chuckling as he strolled into the room like he owned it. “It takes talent to fall off a horse that many times and still keep getting back on. Sort of inspiring, in a pathetic kind of way.”

I scoffed under my breath, stabbing my sausage with more aggression than necessary.

“What? No witty comeback? You always had something smart to say in training.”

“I didn’t invite you,” I muttered, not looking up.

“No, but your father did,” Knox said, and right on cue, like a summoned demon, Father’s voice thundered into the hall.

“I see you’ve found your voice, son. Just not where it matters.”

I flinched slightly, eyes darting toward the doorway where Father strode in with his usual flair—expensive coat, chin held high, the weight of disappointment radiating off him like heat.

“Good morning, Father,” I said, standing out of habit.

He gave a dismissive nod and then turned to Knox, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you for coming, Knox. It’s good to have young alphas like yourself guiding those who still struggle with basic skills.”

The jab wasn’t subtle.

“I’m always happy to assist the future,” Knox said with a smile, throwing me a glance like I was a toddler learning to crawl.

I returned to my seat, appetite fading with every second.

Father didn’t sit. He remained standing, arms crossed as he stared at me. “Is eating the only thing you can do right, Bryan? Because clearly, riding, leadership, and basic discipline have all evaded you.”

The words weren’t new. But they still managed to sting.

“Knox is here to help you,” Father continued. “The next tournament is less than two weeks away, and I’ll be damned if our pack becomes the laughingstock because my son can’t sit on a horse without kissing the ground.”

I grit my teeth. “I didn’t ask for help.”

“No, you didn’t,” he snapped. “But when have you ever taken initiative? When have you ever acted like a true heir?”

I opened my mouth, closed it again, then forced a calm tone. “What’s the plan, then?”

Father gestured to Knox. “He’ll train you personally every morning until the tournament. No excuses, no delays. You’ll attend. You’ll learn. And you’ll stop embarrassing this pack.”

Knox grinned like a wolf handed a juicy steak. “Don’t worry, Bryan. I’ll be gentle.”

“I’m thrilled,” I muttered, pushing my plate away.

Father eyed me sharply. “Do not mess this up. You’re already on thin ice.”

“I get it,” I said, standing slowly. “I’ll be ready.”

Knox gave me a mock salute, and I resisted the urge to punch his smug face.

The rest of breakfast felt like chewing sawdust, so I left. I wasn’t in the mood to be someone’s charity project. But there was no fighting Father’s word—not when he was determined to paint me as a failure every chance he got.

I stormed out toward the stables, fists clenched. If Knox wanted to test me, fine. I’d train until my legs gave out. I’d ride that damn horse if it killed me. Because if there was one thing I hated more than being mocked, it was giving people the satisfaction of being right about me.

I hated mornings. Especially ones that started with being forced out of bed by the promise of humiliation. The air outside was crisp, the sun barely up, but Knox was already at the training field like a goddamn rooster with too much energy and an ego to match.

He sat tall on his shiny black stallion, the horse obviously imported or pampered or both. Its mane looked like it had been styled. Meanwhile, the one they assigned to me—a chestnut mare with one eye that blinked slower than a dying light bulb—looked like it came straight out of retirement from farm duty.

“You’re late,” Knox said, grinning down at me as I mounted. “Is that the best they could give you, or did you lose a bet?”

“Good morning to you too,” I muttered, adjusting the reins.

We hadn’t even started, and my blood pressure was already rising.

Knox let out a whistle. “Damn. If the tournament had a comedy category, you’d win it hands down just by standing next to that thing.”

I gritted my teeth. The mare neighed softly, like she was embarrassed too. Great. Even the horse had shame.

He trotted ahead, leading the way to the open field. I followed, trying to keep up despite the slow gait of my mount. Knox rode like someone born on a saddle—smooth, confident, and show-offy. I rode like someone who once saw a horse in a picture book.

“First lap around the field,” he shouted, already galloping.

I dug my heels in. My mare trotted lazily before finally picking up speed. We were halfway around when Knox turned suddenly and swerved dangerously close to my horse, kicking up dust.

My mare panicked, jolting to the side. I lost balance, grabbed the saddle too late, and hit the ground with a loud, undignified thud.

“Shit,” I groaned, spitting dirt and cursing the entire existence of horses.

Knox trotted back, eyes twinkling with mock sympathy. “Oh no! Did you fall? Again?”

I glared up at him. “You almost rammed into me, asshole.”

“Maybe if you had better control of your ride, you wouldn’t be kissing grass.” He leaned down slightly. “Want me to get you a helmet? Or maybe training wheels?”

I didn’t answer. I just got up, brushed myself off, and got back on the horse. My spine ached. My pride? Gone. But I wasn’t giving him the satisfaction of seeing me walk away.

The next hour was torture. Knox kept calling out commands—“Faster! Turn sharper! Loosen your grip!” —like he was coaching a toddler. He deliberately galloped past me close enough to spook my horse more than once, and every time I wobbled, he’d burst into laughter.

“You know,” he called out after my third fall, “this would be so much easier if you’d just admit you’re more of a housecat than an heir.”

I stood, covered in dirt, feeling the bruise already forming on my hip. “Keep talking, Knox. I’ll make sure you swallow your teeth.”

“Ohhh, scary,” he mocked, backing his horse up in mock fear. “Bryan’s mad now. Everyone runs.”