38: JEALOUS, ARE WE?

**ELIJAH** 

Red.

Of course she wore red.

A slip of silk that clung to her like a promise of violence. Bare-backed, slit high, sheer enough to make even the air blush. She stood there like the fucking queen of sins, smiling like she knew every wicked thing I’d ever wanted to do to her—and that I’d do them twice if she asked.

“Elijah,” she said, dragging my name through her teeth like a knife. “You’re staring.”

I shifted in the throne. Tightened my grip on the armrests. “You’re in my line of sight.”

She walked toward me—no, stalked—each step a challenge, each sway of her hips another nail in my self-control. And she saw it. That was the worst part. She saw it.

“And yet,” she murmured, eyes glittering, “you’re still staring.”

“I’m calculating how long I’ll tolerate your voice before I silence it,” I growled.

She tilted her head, mocking. “That’s not the threat you think it is.”

I should’ve killed her a long time ago.

But instead, I looked at her. I watched her. And I hated that I did.

“You hate that I get under your skin,” she said, reading the fury in my jaw. “And I love that you can’t stop me.”

“I could break you,” I snarled, low and lethal.

“You could try,” she whispered, just as cruel.

She was beneath me. In every way.

So why did it feel like I was the one begging for mercy?

“Dance,” I barked, standing suddenly.

She blinked, a slow grin spreading across her lips. “No.”

I jerked my chin toward the platform in the center of the room—a decadent black stone stage left over from a time of indulgence. A silver pole glinted in the light.

“You’re asking for trouble defying me like that.” I said, my face void of emotions, but they brewed inside me like a storm. 

Her laugh was low, dangerous. “You want me to dance?”

“I want you to show me how desperate you are for my attention.”

She held my gaze, unflinching. “You’ll regret this.”

I already did.

But I said nothing.

She stepped onto the stage, barefoot and arrogant. Claimed it like it was hers. And then—

She began.

It wasn’t dancing.

It was a war.

Her body bent, curled, stretched in ways no one had the right to move. She didn’t dance for me. She danced at me. Like she wanted to see me break. Like she wanted to rip open my ribcage and laugh at what she found inside.

And fuck—she succeeded.

My jaw locked. My cock pulsed. My fists curled.

Every flick of her hips was a dare. Every drop to the floor was a threat. Her eyes never left mine. Not once. She danced like she knew she owned me.

She didn’t.

She fucking didn’t.

She stopped after a while, hands on akimbo. “I think I’m done with this shitshow.” 

“I didn’t ask you to stop.” I fired back. 

“Of course you wouldn’t want me to stop. Your dick is threatening to tear through your trousers.” She said, her eyes fixated on the very evident bulge on my pants. 

“You should definitely watch your tongue, Celeste. Who knows? I might just get angry and cut it off?” 

“Cut my tongue? You wouldn’t dare cut the tongue that slides up and down your dick, Alpha.” She smirked. 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I have other options. You’re not as important as you think you are.” I reminded her, but the words felt like a lie as they left my mouth. 

“Yet, you couldn’t stop yourself from pouncing on the men who dared to look at me with hungry eyes,” she punctuated her speech with a nonchalant shrug. 

I couldn’t help how bad she got under my skin. I hated it. 

“I don’t owe you an explanation for my actions.” I replied with as much nonchalance as I could. 

“You’re jealous,” she said, too smug.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to.

She knew.

And I hated that she knew.

So I snapped my fingers.

The door opened.

Medina walked in.

Celeste froze. Her entire body stilled. Her smugness vanished like ash on the wind.

Good.

“Come here,” I told Medina, without taking my eyes off her.

She obeyed, knelt between my legs, and freed me. I was still hard—of course I was. Celeste had carved the ache into my skin.

I didn’t look down. I didn’t need to.

I watched her.

Every second Medina worked her mouth, I kept my eyes on Celeste. Every flick of her tongue meant nothing. Nothing. Because all I could see was the way Celeste had danced. The way her thighs had trembled. The way her eyes had darkened.

I came. Rough. Brutal. Fast.

It meant nothing.

Celeste turned. Walked toward the door, stiff and silent.

Coward.

“Stop,” I said.

She did. Her shoulders were tight. Her fists clenched.

I crossed the room. Stopped behind her. Close—but not touching.

And I almost spoke.

Almost admitted it.

But no.

She didn’t get that.

She didn’t get the truth.

Not when she held it over me like a dagger.

She turned to face me, waiting.

I said nothing.

I just stared at her.

Because the truth was venom in my throat.

I wanted her.

I hated her.

I needed her.

And I would burn every inch of myself just to watch her smirk one more time.

But she didn’t deserve to know.

Not yet.

Not ever.

So I let the silence speak. Let it bleed between us.

Her lips parted like she might say something.

I shook my head once.

And walked away.

She had danced like the world owed her nothing.

I remembered every movement—every careless turn of her body, every flick of her wrist. She wasn’t dancing for anyone. That was what made it unbearable. She hadn’t looked for approval, hadn’t begged for attention. And yet, every man in the room had stared like starving dogs. Including me.

I loathed myself for it.

The dress had clung to her in all the wrong ways, or perhaps all the right ones—depending on how cruel the universe intended to be. Deep crimson, low-backed, shimmering under candlelight. Her hair had been pinned up, a few curls rebelliously brushing her neck. She had moved like she knew exactly what power she held. And she had wielded it like a blade.

I hated her for it.

Despised her. Because I knew she hadn’t done it for me—but I had watched her anyway. Because despite everything—despite what she’d done, who she was, what she stirred in me—I had wanted to reach out. Just once. Just to see if she would flinch. Or smile. Or burn me alive.

The memory of her laughter haunted me more than it should have. Not bright. Not joyful. But low, rich, like it was carved from defiance itself. She had laughed while dancing. Laughed while I stood there, motionless, fists clenched behind my back like some statue built from old regrets.

Jealousy was a foreign thing. Ugly. Beneath me. Yet there it was—rooted deep and crawling under my skin. I had watched her turn toward one of them—his hand brushing her waist—and something inside me had twisted. Snapped.

Why her?

Why did she get under my skin, when no one else had even gotten close?

She had passed me on her way out. Didn’t look at me. Didn’t have to. Her scent lingered, maddening and warm. And gods help me, I had turned to watch her go. I told myself it was contempt. I told myself it was hatred.

But I had noticed the bare line of her back.

I had memorized it.

And now, alone in the silence of my chambers, I cursed her name under my breath. I whispered it like a sin, clenched my jaw until it ached, and swore I would never think of her again.

But I would.

Because no matter how much I despised her—how much I convinced myself that what I felt was hatred—I knew the truth.

She had danced.

And I had burned.