Page 53 of The Alpha’s Unclaimed Mate

“That makes it worth it, doesn’t it?” Marcus asks quietly.

My heart quivers, and I murmur, “Yeah.”

I don’t pull away now.

We push deeper into the noise, and I drift along half-present. The girls get on an octopus-shaped ride, and I watch them. I can feel Marcus watching me.

“It’s not bad here, is it?” he asks suddenly.

I’m silent.

It’s not bad, but I will always be on edge here, always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He gives me a long, considering look, but he leaves it be and keeps walking. The girls get off the ride and then spot the merry-go-round and begin begging. Marc waves them on. We hang back by the rail.

“You hungry?” he asks.

“No.” My stomach’s been a fist since we left the house.

“Wait here.” He’s gone before I can argue.

He comes back balancing a paper tray of sausage rounds drowned in something red and glistening, two little wooden forks stabbed into the pile.

“I said I’m not hungry.”

“Try one.” He spears a piece and lifts it to my mouth.

My lips part on reflex, which is its own small humiliation, and his eyes go dark as they linger on them. I quickly look away, chewing on the well-seasoned sausage.

“Well?” he murmurs. “How is it?”

“It’s fine.” It’s better than fine, but I’d sooner eat the fork than admit it. He loads the second one and brings it up.

“I can feed myself.”

“I know.” His voice is teasing, and I narrow my eyes, reaching for the other fork. He flicks it a half-inch out of my fingers, and it falls to the ground. “Oops.”

“You are such a pushy jerk sometimes.” I scowl at him.

His grin makes something hot and delicious unfurl in my stomach. “Really? Me?” He presses a hand to his chest, wounded, and the performance is so deliberately pitiful that my hand itches to push him into the nearest trash can.

“Yes. You.”

“That’s a real shame,” he drawls, offering the fork again.

I’m actually hungry, so I accept the bite and refuse to look at him. Before I realize it, he’s fed me the whole plate and not taken a single piece himself.

The girls pile off the merry-go-round, pointing at the teacups, and the two of us get towed along in their wake. I lean on the rail and watch the cups whirl, Mia’s laugh slicing clean over the music. “She’s happy.” My voice drops. “Look at her face.”

“They could pass for sisters.” Marc’s voice goes warm.

My throat closes, and I drop my eyes to my own hands on the rail. I can feel his eyes on the side of my face. He holds the quiet a beat too long.

“I keep wondering about Mia’s father,” he admits.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Why not?” He spreads his hands. “What’s the harm in telling me?”