The Darkest Mark

THE DARKEST MARK THE DARKEST MARK BOOK ONE MAY DAWSON CONTENTS Untitled Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 A Note From May Also by May Dawson Content Notes Amelia’s story contains domestic violence, on- and off-page sexual assault, and her attempts to protect her young son. Her future harem is never the cause of that suffering. Amelia will find healing, love, and the protection she deserves but please be kind to yourself if this is not the right read for you. CHAPTER 1 Amelia As always, I worried my husband suspected that our boy wasn’t his son. Today there was something off about Nathan’s behavior when he swaggered into our kitchen. He rested his hand on the back of Dylan’s chair but didn’t touch him. “Morning, blue eyes,” he told me when he leaned in for a kiss. He was a big man, someone who filled up the room, the house—hell, he filled up the whole pack. But then, he was the alpha. “Good morning.” I made myself kiss him, even though I felt stiff as a wooden puppet. Blue eyes sounded affectionate, but it was cruel. My soulmate, Brennan, used to call me blue eyes. Nathan stole that nickname, the same way he stole my life, my son, my self. Even as I kissed him, my gaze darted toward Dylan, who sat up on his knees on the chair to reach his bowl more easily. Dylan was quiet, his big blue eyes shadowed by his russet-colored bangs. He spooned his oatmeal into his mouth and didn’t look our way, but I knew he was watching Nathan out of the corner of his eye. He always was. Nathan frowned as he straightened, looming over me, as if that kiss hadn’t been convincing. He always loomed. Maybe he couldn’t help it; he was six-foot-three, broad-shouldered, and carried a layer of what my brother had dismissively called prison fat once, when Nathan was in an entirely different county. I looked up at him and tried to lie with my eyes, my body, my smile that felt too much like a grimace. “What are you doing today?” “I’ve got a meeting with the Hessey pack. I should take Dylan.” He rested his hand on my shoulder, a weight that felt too heavy. “Give you a break for the day.” Quiet panic scratched at my chest. “Oh, I wouldn’t want him to distract you.” “He’s four. He can sit in a meeting quietly. Can’t you, Dyl?” Dylan looked up at Nathan and didn’t answer. Nathan hated when he ignored him. Snorting at the lack of response, he said to me, “Time for him to start learning the family business. My son will be alpha someday.” “Of course,” I replied. “As long as he’s strong enough.” “I’m sure he is.” His resulting silence was the kind of silence that prickled on my skin like a rash. I got up from the table and poured his coffee, taking it to him as he settled into the chair next to me, opposite of Dylan. “You can play until it’s time to go,” I told Dylan, picking up his cereal bowl. He nodded and slipped from the table, then ran back to his room. As I rinsed the bowl, Nathan asked, “Shouldn’t he be talking more by now?” “You know how it is. Kids all blossom in their own time.” “He’s not a flower. He’s a wolf.” “It’s just a metaphor.” “I know it’s a metaphor, Amelia. That’s not the problem.” The problem was that Dylan seemed too much like me. Or maybe, really, the problem was that Dylan seemed too much like Brennan. The man Nathan had murdered. I snapped on the gas burner at the stove to fix Nathan’s eggs. I watched the stainless-steel pan heat and listened to the soft sounds of Nathan shifting behind me, sipping his coffee, shuffling his phone. The screen door banged shut, and small feet flew across the back porch. Dylan had gone out to play. I’d assumed the conversation was over, was silently breathing a sigh of relief, when Nathan spoke abruptly. “You baby him.” “I don’t mean to.” “He is your baby,” he muttered. Then he stood suddenly and moved behind me. He pressed up against me, and my lower stomach met the metal handle across the oven door. His cock, even through his jeans, rubbed against the curve of my ass, hard and unrelenting. His breath was hot against my throat as he whispered, “We need to make a new one. Maybe then you’ll let Dylan grow up a little.” “We can try.” “We’re going to do better than try.” His hand massaged across my stomach, and although he might’ve meant it affectionately, his touch felt bruising. “I’m going to fill you up with baby batter tonight.” I forced a smile in answer. If I never heard the words baby batter again, it would be too soon. And if he ever found out I was taking birth control pills, the odds were fifty-fifty that he’d kill me. He’d come close before. Reaching over my shoulder, he snapped the knob on the stove. The flame under the pan flickered and died. “Or maybe . . . we’ve got time now,” he breathed into my ear. I glanced out the window. Dylan was on the swing set in the backyard, pumping his legs single-mindedly. He’d just mastered the motion.