"You're really not mannered, not at all." He says.
His eyes travel down my face, to my lips and lingers there for a little too long.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Because what can I say? That I hadn't realized I was talking back to the infamous Alpha Damien? That the stories of his brutality had been whispered through the halls of my packhouse, but I never thought I'd stand before him, blood-stained and broken?
He chuckles, a low, rich sound that makes my skin prickle. "You're an awful liar, little wolf."
His smirk lingers, like he enjoys watching me squirm, but then—suddenly—his entire demeanor shifts. His head snaps to the side, his shoulders tensing like a beast catching a scent in the wind.
"Run."
The word is sharp, urgent, and before I can process it, Damien yanks back. His heat disappears, replaced by the biting cold of the night. His gaze sweeps the dark forest, muscles coiled like a predator ready to strike.
I hesitate for half a second.
Then he snarls, "Behind me. Now."
Instinct takes over. My legs move on their own, sprinting behind him as he leads me. I don't ask where we're going. I don't dare.
By the time we reach a small, hidden structure nestled between the thick trunks, my lungs are burning, my legs threatening to collapse beneath me.
Damien pushes open the heavy door, ushering me inside before stepping in after me and locking it shut.
Inside, the space is simple but prepared. A safe house.
My breath is uneven, my skin clammy from the run. I turn to Damien, still standing by the door, his eyes scanning me as if assessing for injuries.
Then, his gaze sharpens. "Your name."
I blink, thrown by the sudden request. "What?"
His jaw tightens, impatience bleeding into his tone. "Your name. Answer."
The command sends a chill down my spine. I swallow hard, my voice barely above a whisper.
"…Eva."
Damien exhales, slow and measured, as if testing the weight of my name on his tongue. Then, something flickers in his eyes—something unreadable.
"Eva," he repeats. Then, softer, almost to himself, "So that's who you are."
Before I can respond, he turns abruptly, strides to a shelf, and grabs a small black box. A medikit.
"Come here," he orders, already settling on the couch. I stare at him. Then at the box in his hands.
"I don't need—"
"Now."
I gulp hard. My legs move before I could even think. Standing before him, I was about to sit on the couch, when he grabbed my wrist and made me sit on the table in front of him instead. I stare at him with wide eyes.
"This position is comfortable for me." He says.
I hiss as the cold antiseptic stings my wound, my body tensing involuntarily. His touch is firm yet calculated, not an ounce of hesitation as he dabs at the cut on my arm.
"You're awfully quiet," Damien murmurs, his voice a low rumble. His fingers, rough and warm, brush against my skin, sending a jolt of something dangerously addictive through me.
I glare at him, ignoring the way my breath catches. "What do you want me to say? Thank you for nearly tearing my arm apart with your tight grip?"
His lips twitch, amusement flickering in his stormy gaze. "You think that was me being rough?" His voice dips lower, a sinful promise wrapped in amusement. "You wouldn't survive if I actually tried."
Heat pools low in my stomach, an unfamiliar fire crackling between us. I hate that my body reacts to him—to the way his fingers linger just a second too long, to the way his eyes darken as he watches me squirm under his touch.
"Hold still." His large hand wraps around my wrist, steadying me as he finishes tending to my wound. I shudder, and his eyes flick to mine, sharp and knowing. "Are you cold?"
No. I'm burning.
I shake my head, but it's a mistake. His smirk deepens as if he can hear the unspoken words in my head. His fingers trail along my arm, slow, deliberate, leaving a tingling sensation in their wake.
"There," he murmurs, securing the bandage in place. "All done."
But he doesn't move away.
Neither do I.
The air crackles, thick with something heady, something dangerous. I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dries. His thumb brushes over my pulse point, and I know he can feel how fast it's racing.
"You should stop touching me," I whisper, my voice barely audible.
His smirk fades, replaced by something darker. "And if I don't?"
I don't have an answer.
Because, all of a sudden, I don't want him to stop.
His fingers tighten around my wrist, his touch a contradiction—gentle yet unyielding.
He leans in, his nose brushing just below my ear, his breath fanning over my heated skin.
"Your scent is way too addicting," he rasps, his voice lower, rougher.
My stomach flips. My face burns.
He inhales again, slow and deliberate, his lips almost grazing my throat. "So fucking sweet," he murmurs, voice dripping with hunger. "And hot."
I should shove him away. I should tell him to stop.
But my body betrays me.
His fingers trace down my arm, slow and deliberate, as if savoring the feel of my skin. My breath hitches, and my body betrays me, leaning into his touch even as my mind screams at me to push him away.
His nose skims my jawline, his lips dangerously close. "You're burning up," he murmurs, voice laced with something dark, something primal.
I swallow hard. "Maybe because you're too damn close," I snap, trying to regain control of the situation.
His lips quirk up in a smirk against my skin. "Am I?" he taunts, his hand moving to my waist, his grip firm, possessive.
A shiver racks through me, a mix of defiance and something else—something I don't want to name.
I push against his chest, but he doesn't budge. He's immovable, solid and dominant. His eyes darken, a flicker of amusement dancing in them before they grow serious.
"You should be scared of me," he says, voice hushed but intense.
I meet his gaze, my chin lifting defiantly. "Then why aren't you letting me go?"
A muscle ticks in his jaw. "Because I don't want to."
Heat coils in my stomach, an intoxicating mix of tension and desire. The air between us crackles, thick and suffocating.
Then, as if catching himself, he suddenly pulls back. The loss of his warmth is instant, jarring.
"Get some rest," he mutters, turning away, his voice gruff, almost strained.
But as he walks off, his fingers twitch at his sides, as if restraining himself.
I push open the bedroom door, half-expecting some grand suite fit for an Alpha. Instead, it's small—bare, almost.
Just like him.
I shut the bedroom door behind me, pressing my back against it as I exhale sharply. My heart is still racing, my skin still tingling where his hands touched me.
What the hell is happening to me?
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to steady myself, but it's impossible. His scent lingers in the air—dark, intoxicating, and far too addicting. I shake my head and push off the door, running a hand through my hair.
I need to clear my mind. I need to—
The floor creaks.
My breath catches. Slowly, I turn my head.
Damien.
He's leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, his gaze heavy and unreadable. My stomach tightens.
"You forgot something," he murmurs.
Before I can ask what, he steps forward.
I stiffen as he reaches past me, his body so close I can feel his warmth. The scent of cedar and something distinctly him wraps around me like a slow, suffocating pull.
His fingers brush against my hip, deliberate and unhurried, and I shudder.
My breath hitches. "What—"
His lips graze the shell of my ear, and a shiver races down my spine.
"Goodnight, little wolf."
His voice is low, husky, and laced with something dark. Something that makes my stomach dip.
Then, just as quickly as he invaded my space, he's gone, stepping back with a smirk playing on his lips. His eyes flicker with amusement. Or maybe it's something else.
Something that feels like a warning.
Or a promise.
I swallow hard, gripping the door handle as he disappears down the hall. Only then do I realize—
I never even saw what he came to retrieve.