The Beast’s Betrayed Mate

The Beast’s Betrayed Mate Rejected Mate Wolf Shifter Romance Silverbay Wolves Book 2 Sansa Moon Copyright © 2023 by Sansa Moon. All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of the book only. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form, including recording, without prior written permission from the publisher, except for brief quotations in a book review. Contents Chapter 1 - Peter Chapter 2 - Olive Chapter 3 - Peter Chapter 4 - Olive Chapter 5 - Peter Chapter 6 - Olive Chapter 7 - Peter Chapter 8 - Olive Chapter 9 - Peter Chapter 10 - Olive Chapter 11 - Peter Chapter 12 - Olive Chapter 13 - Peter Chapter 14 - Olive Chapter 15 - Peter About the Author Books by Sansa Moon Chapter 1 - Peter He was running as fast as he could, out of breath, sweat dripping down his brow. He wiped at it frantically, choosing a tree to hide behind. He tried to quiet his breathing as he pressed himself against the trunk; tried to be still, slow his heart rate. The creature could hear it beating. The creature could smell him, his sweat and fear. The creature would find him. Run. He did, taking off again. It was behind him. He could hear it snapping at his heels, twigs cracking in two under its mighty paws. The creature would get him, sink its teeth into him. He woke with a start, sitting up in bed. Heart racing, sweat dripping. “Jesus,” he murmured, staring at the familiar painting on the wall opposite his bed, grounding himself out of the nightmare and back into his bedroom. Into reality. The picture was all swirling color, but it was part of home, letting him know he was out of the woods. Quasi-literally. He hadn’t had a nightmare that felt that vivid since he was a kid. What the hell had caused it? A second later he jerked, hand at his heart when his alarm went off. He glared at it, then had to laugh at his annoyance since all was well. Thankfully. With a mutter, he switched the intrusive noise off. Pushing his covers to the side, he swung his legs out of bed, stood, feeling unrested and like he should take the day off work. Only, he couldn’t. He never took the day off, even when he was sick. Well, unless he was deathly ill and risked spreading it to the rest of his crew, but he never got sick like that. And he wasn’t about to take a sick day because of a damn nightmare. Sleep deprivation could be cured with coffee and plastering on a smile would let everyone know how fine he was. Besides, if he didn’t have a good enough reason to stay home, he’d never hear the end of it from Olive. He never heard the end of anything from Olive. The last thing he wanted to do was give her an excuse to nag him about yet another thing. Nothing he did was ever right in her eyes. Perhaps he deserved the treatment after how he’d treated her in the past, but it was six years ago. She was holding onto anger that wasn’t even justifiable anymore because he knew better. He wouldn’t treat anyone the way he had treated her. And what was worse, she was making him think about not wanting to add stokes to the fire, adjusting himself to her frame of mind as though that frame of mind was justifiable. When, really, she should just forgive and forget already. Or, she should have asked not to be made part of his team at all after her transfer from Chicago to the Silverbay research center. So, if he was being honest, she’d put herself into a situation where she had to see him every day, and she was making him pay for it. How was that fair? She hadn’t even given him a chance. Not that he wanted her to. Not after four months of berating. She had shown him her true colors and he was less interested in making amends than a mouse was with a cat. She could continue her hissing and clawing; he was simply going to continue as he had been and ignore her. He muttered under his breath, walking into his bathroom. After taking a piss, staring at the wall, and suppressing the yawning wanting to grab hold—thinking it wouldn’t let up and he didn’t want to hear Olive comment on how big his mouth cavity was or something equally aggravating—he planted himself by the sink to wash his hands. He paused as his eyes caught on a trail of markings on his wrist. If he didn’t know better, he would have said they were bite marks. But they couldn’t be. He frowned as he realized he was still wearing the shirt and tie he’d worn the night prior. His light brown hair was a mess, his hazel eyes staring as he caught the gaze of his reflection. There were bloodstains along the bottom hem of the shirt. He noted each detail in a perfunctory manner, his mind switching to autopilot, registering the basic components of the matter at hand in order to more easily glean the full picture. Just as he had been taught. An analyst to the bone. Same clothes. Blood. Bite marks. And the nightmare… What had he done last night? He tried to remember how he got into bed, why he hadn’t undressed, showered, and shaved, like he always did. Frowning he realized he couldn’t remember anything from the previous night. Not a single thing. The only thing he could remember clearly was the dream. He glanced at his wrist again. At the distinctive row of puncture marks visible there. There was no way the dream was actually a memory. Was there? His alarm blared again. A loud reminder that he had to leave for