Chapter 15 Chapter 15
Zarlia had imagined his house to be enormous—cold marble floors, echoing halls and a chandelier too bright to look at. Instead, it was smaller than she thought, but still bigger than anything she could ever afford. Every corner looked deliberate, spotless, distant. The scent of cedarwood and smoke hung faintly in the air—him even when he wasn’t in the room.
She sat at the edge of the guest bed, her hands gripping the sheets so tightly they wrinkled beneath her. The room was neat and minimal—a dresser, a lamp, pale curtains that barely let the moonlight through. Too quiet. Too prefect.
He had carried her in.
Actually carried her—despite her protests, despite her thrashing.
She could still feel the ghost of his arm beneath her knees, the solid line of his chest against her side. He hadn’t said a word to her since. Just set her down on the bed, told her to “freshen up,” and disappeared into his room next door.
Now, only the sound of running water filled the silence.
Zarlia stared at the wall between them, biting her lip. The steady rush of water was maddening, rhythmic. Her mind betrayed her — painting pictures she didn’t want to see.
Him standing beneath the spray, head tilted back, water tracing the ridges of his chest, running down his stomach, over the scar near his ribs she’d glimpsed once—
She inhaled sharply, shaking her head as though the thought itself were sinful. “Stop it,” she whispered under her breath.
She got up, pacing. Back and forth. The floor creaked slightly under her bare feet.
Everything that had happened in one day crashed over her like a wave — the meeting, Romero, being thrown out, the mark, him. She was exhausted, furious, and confused all at once.
Her pulse was hammering in her throat before she realized she was already standing at his door.
She hesitated. The sound of water was still going. Steam whispered against the bottom crack of the door.
She should turn back. She should breathe, calm down, think.
But the longer she stood there, the angrier she became — angry at him for marking her, for controlling her, for making her feel things she didn’t understand.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she twisted the doorknob and stepped inside.
The room was dim, lit only by a small lamp on the nightstand. Shadows stretched across the walls. His room was larger than hers — dark wood, clean lines, no clutter. Everything about it screamed restraint.
Her heart thudded painfully as she stepped forward, her voice trembling with everything she’d been holding in.
“Stetson,” she called, louder than she intended. “We need to talk. I’m not staying here; I don’t care what you—”
The sound of the shower stopped. A beat of silence.
Zarlia suddenly thought it was a bad idea to come to his room. She had to run away before he sees her. She turned and attempted to head for the door.
Then the bathroom door opened.
Steam poured out in slow, soft waves, curling around the doorway like mist and Stetson walked out.
Zarlia froze.
Every thought, every word she’d prepared, vanished the moment Stetson walked out of the bathroom. Steam coiled around him like smoke around fire. A single towel hung loosely around his waist, water still trailing down the hard lines of his abdomen. His hair was wet, slicked back but with a few dark strands falling over his forehead.
Her heart skipped—once, then twice—as she met his eyes. Fierce. Piercing. Like he could see straight through her hesitation and the mess of emotions underneath.
He raised a brow. “What are you doing here? And what do you want to talk about?”
Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. Words tangled somewhere between her brain and her tongue. “i—uh—you should put some clothes on,” she blurted, eyes darting away.
He chuckled, low and amused. He walked over to his bed and picked up a small blue towel. “You barged into my room remember?”, he said, rubbing the towel through his hair, droplets of water sliding down his neck and chest.
She could barely keep her thoughts in check.
Zarlia swallowed hard. “I… I don’t want to stay here,” she said, forcing her voice steady. “Take me home. Please.”
She knew nothing about Stetson and most importantly what was his motive. For all she knows he might be planning to kill her. Not only that, he made her uncomfortable. Anytime she’s with him, it feels like she’s under a spell, she feels out of place when he’s around—like what’s happening now.
He paused mid-motion, one hand still in his hair. “Home?” His voice softened, almost pitying. “Romero’s got the house now, Zarlia.”
He too couldn’t keep track of his feelings when he’s around her. Asher’s continuous rampage plus her intoxicating scent, not to mention her attitude that always kept him intrigued and what hurts the most was the fact that she didn’t want to be around him. Sure, there were times he caught her under his gaze and her desires clouds her eyes but it was clear she didn’t really like himor maybe she just wanted to run.
Zarlia’s stomach twisted. She knew he was right. Still, she lifted her chin stubbornly. “Then I’ll stay in a hotel.”
Something in him shifted at that — a flicker of anger flashing through his eyes. In the next second, he moved.
She barely had time to blink before her back hit the wooden wardrobe. The impact made a soft thud, and his presence swallowed the space between them.
“Am I that unbearable to be around?” he asked, his tone dangerously calm. His hands were braced on either side of her, his scent wrapping around her like a drug. “Why do you hate being near me so much?”
Her breath hitched. He wasn’t wearing his ring — she could feel it. The restraint he usually held like armor was gone, replaced by raw energy that made her knees weak. His pupils dilated as his gaze flicked to her lips, and she caught herself mirroring the motion — drawn in, helplessly.
“I…” she began, but the words dissolved into silence. His question had caught her off guard.
He leaned closer, close enough for her to feel his breath. Then, in a quiet, deliberate tone, he said, “I’ll make you a deal.”
Her brows furrowed, though her voice was barely a whisper. “What kind of deal?”
“I’ll answer five of your questions,” he said. “Anything you want to know. But you stay here—with me.”
She hesitated, suspicious. “Why would you do that?”
He had snapped when she asks him questions about himselfso why was he willing to answer them, all of a sudden too
He smiled faintly, the kind of smile that never reached his eyes. “Because you don’t trust me. And maybe you should.”
Still, she didn’t move.
He sighed and added, “I’ll pay you. Separate from your salary.”
That made her blink. “You’ll pay me… to live with you?”
He shrugged, stepping back just slightly. “You like practical reasons, don’t you?”
She bit her lip, thinking. Against every ounce of logic she had, she nodded. “Fine. I’ll stay.”
He was about to turn away, a flicker of relief crossing his face—until she reached out and caught his arm. Her fingers brushed against his damp skin, and for a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Zarlia looked up at him, steady now. “Then I’m asking my first question.”
Her fingers were still on his arm when she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.
“What are you?”
Stetson’s jaw flexed. He looked at her — really looked — as if trying to decide whether she could handle the truth. “You already know,” he said finally, his tone low and rough, like gravel under his breath.
Zarlia frowned. “No, I don’t.”
His lips twitched into something between a smirk and a sigh. “I’m an Alpha, Zarlia.”
The word hung between them, heavy and electric. She swallowed, her gaze tracing the sharp edge of his jaw down to his lips — those lips that had kissed her, bitten her, claimed something she didn’t understand.
She read about Alpha’s through Mimi’s page. Despite having proof in front of her, she still couldn’t believe it—reading about it was one thing, seeing it is another.
Her hand moved before her mind could catch up. She reached up, her thumb brushing against his mouth, pressing lightly against the lower lip. His breath hitched, and for a second, his control wavered — she could feel it in the air, in the way his body tensed.
“Then tell me,” She whispered, her eyes locked on his, “why did you bite me?”
His gaze darkened. Slowly, it drifted down the curve of her neck to the small, faint mark just above her collarbone. The place where his teeth had broken skin. The place that had burned for days.
He raised his hand — large, warm, trembling with restraint — and let his thumb brush over the mark.
Zarlia flinched, not from pain, but from the pull that jolted through her like a spark.
His voice dropped, deeper now, almost a growl. “So, they’d know.”
Her breath caught. “Know what?”
He lifted his eyes back to hers, the fierce blue of them almost glowing in the dim light.
“That you belong to me.”