Pursuing My Rejected Luna by Cara Anderson novel Chapter 258

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She didn’t say: you’re using her.

And she didn’t say: she doesn’t know why you really let her stay.

But we both know it’s all true.

“Fuck!” I mutter to myself, pulling myself together and heading back to my car. I’ll worry about this shit later Right now I have work to do.

I drive back to the office, anxious to check in with Cole. And like the bond already knows we’re on our way back to her, my building headache eases with every minute closer I get. That knowledge is agony and sweet relief at the same time.

I’ve been watching Cassandra. I tell myself it’s my responsibility as Alpha to keep an eye on any potential enemy. refuse to entertain the idea that it’s anything more than that.

Every job I’ve given her, no matter how demeaning, she’s done without complaint. And more than that, she’s actually done them well. The cassandra I know would have whined like a child at the mere suggestion of work and had a full on tantrum at being asked to actually get her hands dirty. This version of her is unsettling.

But competence isn’t trustworthiness. I keep reminding myself of that.

“Reassign Cassandra to kitchen duty.” I tell Cole when I get back to the office.

He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind when I say it. “Kitchen duty.” He repeats the words like they’ll make more sense if he says them out loud.

“Mara needs help with prep for pack meals.”

“She has three staff.”

“She can use four,” I hold my ground. “Assign Cassandra.”

He rolls his eyes. “She’s never done a day of manual labor in her life.”

“No,” I smirk to myself. “She hasn’t.”

“Fine.” He grumbles. “But if dinner is inedible, you’re paying for take out.”

“Deal!” I chuckle as he storms away.

All day I wait for the backlash of Cassandra’s reassignment. I expect her to seek me out, demanding to be assigned something less menial. Or at the very least for Cole or Mara herself to report what a disaster she’s causing. But none of that happens.

Finally, I can’t take it anymore and go see for myself. I watch her through the kitchen window-sleeves pushed up, chatting happily with Mara as she washes dishes. Moving quickly, efficiently, without complaint. Just doing it.

By day three of her assigned kitchen duty, Mara stops me in the corridor.

“Your contractor,” she says matter-of-factly, as is her usual no nonsense approach.

“Yes?” Finally, I think. Here it comes.

“She’s been a huge help. She even reorganized my prep station.” Mara states with the quality of someone reporting the weather. “It’s better.”

“She does that,” I mutter under my breath, grumbling to myself.

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“I didn’t even ask her to.” She points out.

“I growl softly. “She does it anyway.”

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“Well, thank you for assigning her.” Her gratitude comes with the slightest upturn of her lips which is unheard of for Mara. “She’s good with the boy too. He’s been helping with the small things. She takes it seriously teaching him to be helpful.” She pauses, then admits, “We enjoy having her around.”

She goes back to her kitchen and I stand in the corridor and think about what it means that I keep expecting a limit and she keeps not having one. What the hell is going on here? There has to be an end game. There always is/

with her.

I just haven’t found it yet.

Cara Anderson Author

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