168

168
ALTHEA

I should have known I wasn’t safe, even here.
Even in my pack.
Even when the Blood Moon pack had started to thrive, when their respect and warmth had begun to wrap around me like a shield.
He found me in his office that afternoon, quiet as a shadow.
I had gone in to deliver the report on the patrols—careful, professional, keeping my distance. I wanted nothing more than to do my duty and leave.
“Althea,” he said from behind his desk, eyes lifting slowly to catch mine.
I froze mid-step. His gaze pinned me to the floor.
“Yes, Alpha?” I asked, trying to sound steady, though my pulse jumped.
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, a small, crooked smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said finally. His voice was calm, but there was an edge in it—a predator’s patience.
“I—” I started. Then stopped. What could I say? I wasn’t avoiding him. I was protecting myself from him. Protecting my own fragile composure from being undone every time he was near.
“I see it,” he said softly, stepping around the desk. One deliberate, fluid movement, and he was only a few feet away. My breath hitched. “Every time I’m near, you stiffen. You fight your own instincts.”
“I’m not—”
“Yes, you are,” he interrupted, crouching just slightly so his eyes were level with mine. The heat radiating off him was impossible to ignore. My wolf stirred faintly, restless and weak, and I hated myself for noticing.
“You’re lying to me,” he said, a teasing lilt entering his tone. “And I love that shade of crimson on your cheeks when you do.”
I tried to look away, to shrink into the corner of the office—but his presence was too strong, too consuming. I felt it in my bones, in the warmth rolling off him like sunlight on cold stone.
“I… I don’t blush that easily,” I muttered, even though the heat spreading across my face said otherwise.
“You do,” he said softly, stepping closer. “Every time I’m near, your pulse betrays you. You can’t hide it from me.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” he said again, voice low, deliberate. “And that whimper I heard the other day? Don’t think I forgot it.”
I flinched, heart hammering. “You didn’t hear that.”
“I did,” he said, tilting his head, enjoying the way my shoulders tensed, the way my jaw clenched, the way my body betrayed me despite all my effort. “You think you’re in control, but you’re not. And it’s fun to watch.”
I wanted to glare, to scream, to push him back—but somehow, I couldn’t move. My legs refused to carry me anywhere. My body felt like molten lead, heavy, betraying me at every turn.
He took another step closer, and I could feel the heat from him, that dangerous, magnetic warmth that had undone me once before. My knees threatened to buckle.
“Althea,” he murmured, leaning just slightly toward me, enough that I could feel his breath against my cheek. “Look at me.”
I tried, trembling, but my eyes kept darting away, caught in the storm of conflicting feelings—fear, frustration, and something I hated myself for.
“Good,” he said softly. “There it is. That tiny part of you that melts every time I get close. I see it. I enjoy it. You can’t hide it from me.”
I swallowed hard. “I hate that you can do that.”
“And yet,” he said, tilting his head just enough to brush a strand of hair from my face, “here you are, standing instead of running. Your body responds to me whether you like it or not.”
“I—” I tried to speak, but my words caught in my throat. I hated the way my body trembled with awareness of him, the way heat pooled low in a traitorous place. I hated that my pulse raced, my cheeks burned, my stomach flipped.
“Good,” he said softly, voice low and dangerous. “I like that you can’t control it. That you can’t pretend. That’s my favorite view of you.”
I shivered, though I didn’t know if it was fear, anticipation, or something far more complicated. “You’re impossible,” I whispered.
“Perhaps,” he admitted. “But it’s effective.”
He stopped only a few inches from me. I could feel the space between us shrinking with every heartbeat. He didn’t touch me—not yet—but I felt every ounce of him. The scent, the warmth, the quiet strength pressing down around me like a storm.
“I could kiss you,” he said quietly, almost as a thought, “but I won’t. Not yet.”
Heat exploded through me. I closed my eyes for a moment, hating that my body responded. Hating the ache that pulsed in my chest and stomach, the pulse hammering so hard it hurt to breathe.
“I hate that,” I whispered.
“No, you don’t,” he said softly. “You think you do. But look at you. Standing there, trembling, melting, flushed… every inch of you betrays what you feel.”
I opened my eyes, and he was watching me—really watching me. And I felt it. The weight of him, the power, the danger, and that tiny, infuriating tenderness he only ever let me glimpse.
“I… can’t,” I said finally, voice shaky. “You’re… too much.”
“And you love it,” he replied calmly, as if stating the obvious.
“No!” I snapped, cheeks burning hotter than ever.
“Crimson,” he murmured, smiling faintly. “That’s the color you make when I get this close. My favorite.”
I groaned, hiding my face in my hands, frustrated beyond reason. “You’re impossible,” I repeated, though my voice cracked.
“And yet,” he said softly, crouching slightly so his face was just level with mine, “you’re still here. Still not running. Still letting me see you like this.”
My knees weakened. My heart hammered in my chest. My breath came in shallow bursts.
He stayed close, savoring every second. Watching me squirm. Watching me whimper quietly when his warmth pressed too near. Watching me melt in spite of every warning my mind screamed at me.
And I hated it. Hated him. Hated myself. Hated the way my body betrayed me even when my mind told me to fight, to push, to escape.
“I—need… space,” I whispered, though I didn’t move.
“Take your time,” he said softly. “I’m not leaving.”
He stepped back just enough to let me breathe, but the tension didn’t leave. The space between us was thick with unspoken words, unfulfilled desire, and teasing, restrained power.
I sank onto the edge of his desk, heart racing, cheeks still burning, aware of every inch of him in the room. He leaned against the edge opposite me, casually, effortlessly, as if he owned the moment—and in a way, he did.
“I can’t… I can’t,” I whispered, though I didn’t know what I meant.
“You can,” he said softly. “You’re just fighting yourself. And that’s why I enjoy this so much.”
I groaned softly, frustrated and helpless, hating the way my body reacted, hating the way my pulse raced every time he moved even slightly closer.
“And that blush,” he added, eyes darkening with amusement and something deeper. “It’s going to get worse the more you fight it.”
I buried my face in my hands, groaning again. “I hate you.”
“And I love watching you,” he said, voice low, dangerous, patient. “That’s the difference.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I just let him watch me, let him enjoy the view, let him tease me endlessly while my heart hammered and my mind screamed.
And, despite every warning, every reason to fight him, I felt myself melting a little more into the warmth of him.
Even if I hated it.
Even if I hated him.
Even if I hated myself for responding.
Because that was Alpha Collin.
And no matter what, he always got under my skin.