Chapter 67 67
ARIELLE'S POV
I stepped into the house with a foot, and was about to shove it wider when a sharp, insistent sound cut through the afternoon quiet.
Caw. Caw. Caw.
A crow. Perched on the gutter above the porch railing, its black eyes fixed on me like it was waiting for something. The noise was so sudden, so deliberate, it made me freeze. My gaze flicked to the bird, and for a stupid second, I just stood there, staring at it.
That's when I heard it.
A whoosh from behind me. Not from the door. From inside the house. A rush of air, like a heavy curtain being swept aside, like a body moving fast through a room. My head snapped back toward the open door, and I swirled around, my bag slipping off my shoulder and hitting the porch floor with a dull thunk.
My hand fumbled against the wall just inside the doorway, groping for the light switch. I found it, flipped it on. The single overhead bulb buzzed to life, flooding the small living room with harsh, yellow light.
Empty.
The room was empty. The sofa I'd seen earlier. The bare floorboards. The dust motes dancing in the sunbeams from the front window. Nothing else. No shadow in the corner. No figure by the kitchen doorway. Just silence and the faint, lingering smell of... something. Something not quite dust.
My heart was a wild drum in my chest. Who had been growling? That low, rough sound I'd heard from the porch. That wasn't the house settling. That wasn't my imagination. And my name. That hard, rough whisper—Arielle!—barely a minute ago. It had been real. I knew it had been real.
A cold prickle crawled up the back of my neck. The hair on my arms stood straight up. That old, primal feeling—the one you get when someone is standing right behind you, close enough to touch.
I spun around.
A face. Close. Too close. I didn't fully recognize it in that first split second—just shadows and hard lines and eyes that were too bright in the dim light from the doorway. A scream clawed its way up my throat, but before it could escape, a hand clamped down over my mouth. Hard. Firm.
I panted against his palm, my muffled cries filling the small space. I thrashed, my hands coming up to claw at his wrist, until my vision cleared and the face swam into focus.
High cheekbones. Dark hair falling across a furrowed brow. Those hazel eyes, flecked with gold, stared down at me with an expression caught somewhere between annoyance and something else I couldn't fathom.
Alpha Aeson.
My struggles stopped. I went limp in his grip, my breath still coming in short, panicked bursts against his fingers.
What was he doing here?
He must have felt the tension drain from my body, seen the recognition click in my eyes. He let go of me, stepping back a single pace. His hand fell to his side.
I stumbled back a step, my hand flying to my chest. I sucked in a lungful of air. "You scared me," I gasped, my voice shaking. "What are you doing here? It's trespassing."
His hazel eyes darkened, the gold in them hardening to something cold. "Trespassing?" he repeated, the word slow and sharp, like I'd just insulted his entire bloodline. "Into a house I own?"
I bit the inside of my cheek. Stopped myself from rolling my eyes. Barely. Because he was right. Painstakingly, annoyingly right. He was the Alpha of this pack. This house—this whole stretch of land—belonged to him. I was just renting a corner of it.
"No. I mean..." I started, fumbling for words.
"I just came looking for my stud," he cut in, his voice flat.
"Your stud?"
"Yes." His gaze flicked past me, into the room behind. Then he moved. Got closer. I took a step back before I could stop myself—pure instinct, the kind that comes from being cornered by a predator. But he didn't stop. He just walked past me, his shoulder brushing mine as he went further into the living room.
I turned and watched him bend down beside the side table. When he straightened, he was holding something up between his thumb and forefinger.
A small, silver earring. A simple stud, shaped like a crescent moon, the metal catching the yellow light.
"Oh," I blinked. "That's it?"
He didn't answer. Didn't even look at me. He just walked past again, heading for the open front door. His boots thudded against the porch steps, and then he was out on the lawn, moving toward the path that led back to the main pack house.
And then it struck me.
He had given me the key. Just yesterday. So how had he gotten in? The door should have been locked when I arrived. He must have a spare. Of course, he had a spare. He owned the damn place.
"Hey!" I called out, the word leaving my mouth before I'd fully thought it through. I ran after him, my boots slapping against the wooden steps, then the gravel of the path.
He stopped at the edge of the lawn and turned to look at me. His face was unreadable, but his eyes were watching me like I was a puzzle he was already bored of solving.
I couldn't take it. The words just spilled out. "You have a spare key to the house."
"Excuse you?"
I swallowed. "You're the Alpha of the pack. Technically, everything and everywhere belongs to you. But I'll be paying rent for this apartment, and I won't feel safe if you've got a spare key because you'd... you're not..."
I went speechless. Lost. Because he was looking at me with those eyes, and I couldn't find the rest of the sentence. It just evaporated.
"You think I would like to sneak into the house?" he cut in, his voice low. "To come watch you? Spy on you like some creep?"
His voice stung. Not because it was loud, but because it was sharp. Precise. Like I'd accused him of something ugly, something beneath him. And I didn't know why, but the way he said it... It made me question myself. My perception of him. Maybe I'd been too quick to assume.
He walked back toward me, closing the distance between us until he was standing on the porch steps, looking down at me. "Give me the key," he said. "The one I gave you."
My hand dropped to my bag. I unzipped the side pocket and stuck my fingers inside, feeling around. "It's here... I always keep my..."
I trailed off. My fingers touched nothing but loose change and a crumpled receipt. I dug deeper. The main compartment. The front pocket. Nothing.
I looked up at him, a flush creeping up my neck. "I can't find it."
He just stared at me.
"Where is it?" I muttered, more to myself than to him. "Did someone take it...?"
"You dropped it," he said flatly. "Yesterday. While you were in a hurry. So I took it."
Oh.
I... didn't know that. The heat spread from my neck to my cheeks. How could I have accused him like that—to his face, no less—when it was my own fault? When I was the one who'd been careless?