Before he could get another word out, I wrenched my arm free and swung.
The slap cracked across his face, the sound echoing through the den hall.
"How dare you strike him!"
The Omega scrambled up from her seat and shoved me hard, positioning herself in front of Rogan like a shield. Her voice was shrill, indignant, her scent spiking with false outrage.
"Who do you think you are?"
"You have no right to touch my Alpha!"
I looked at her—really looked—taking in her defiant stance and the way her scent mingled so thoroughly with my mate's. I almost laughed. Then I turned to Rogan, whose expression had twisted into something complicated. I reached for the cloth on the table, calmly wiped my wrist where he'd grabbed me, erasing his touch, and smiled.
"Why don't you tell her?"
My voice was ice.
"Tell her exactly who I am. Tell her whether or not I have the right to slap a wolf who can't honor his mating bond."
Rogan's face cycled through shock, then confusion, then—as he took in my relentless stare and the Omega's defiant posture—something hardened. He stepped in front of her, shielding her from me, his Alpha presence flaring protectively around her instead of his bonded mate.