166

166

ALTHEA

I thought the teasing would stop after that night.
That he would sense how close I was to snapping—not at him, but at myself—and pull back. Give me space. Be careful.
I forgot that Alpha Collin had never been careful in his life.
The next few days blurred together in a strange, fragile rhythm. My arm stayed healed—no pain, no weakness—but my heart felt worse for it. Because now I had no physical excuse to hide behind. No cast. No visible injury.
Just feelings I didn’t want.
He didn’t crowd me. That was the cruelest part. He gave me space the way a predator gives space—watching, aware, letting me forget just enough to lower my guard.
And then—
“You’re wearing that again.”
I stopped mid-step in the corridor and turned slowly. “What?”
“That color,” he said, leaning against the wall like he had nowhere else to be. His gaze swept over me unashamedly. “It brings out your blush.”
“I don’t blush.”
One dark brow arched. “You’re doing it now.”
Heat flooded my face instantly, like my body was mocking me.
“I hate you,” I muttered, pushing past him.
He laughed—low, warm, far too pleased. “Liar.”
I walked faster.
He followed, unhurried, boots echoing behind me. “You always do that when you’re flustered.”
“I am not flustered.”
“You shorten your stride,” he continued thoughtfully. “Like you’re trying to escape without running.”
I whirled on him. “Do you ever stop analyzing people?”
“No,” he said easily. “Especially not you.”
My breath caught despite myself.
“Why?” I demanded.
His eyes softened just a fraction. “Because you react honestly.”
I hated that answer. Hated that it made my chest ache.
I turned away again, but this time he stepped into my path—not touching, just close enough that my body noticed before my mind could object.
“Relax,” he murmured. “I’m not cornering you.”
“You are absolutely cornering me.”
“If I were,” he said calmly, “you’d be pressed against the wall already.”
My pulse spiked traitorously.
He noticed.
His lips curved. “There it is.”
“Don’t,” I whispered.
“Don’t tease you?” he asked softly. “Or don’t enjoy it?”
I clenched my fists. “You think this is funny.”
“I think,” he said, leaning just slightly closer, “that watching you fight your own instincts is fascinating.”
I sucked in a sharp breath when his scent wrapped around me—warm, grounding, Alpha.
A tiny, humiliating sound slipped from my throat.
His eyes darkened instantly.
“That sound,” he said quietly. “You make it when you’re overwhelmed.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“I know,” he interrupted gently. “That’s why I like it.”
Shame and heat crashed through me at once.
I shoved past him, heart pounding, and locked myself in my room like a coward.
I hated him for enjoying this.
I hated myself for responding.
It only got worse after that.
He started doing it deliberately—testing, nudging, watching.
Never touching.
Always close enough.
Once, I was reaching for a book in the common room when his voice drifted lazily from behind me.
“If you stretch like that again,” he said, “I might forget I’m trying to behave.”
I froze, mortified.
“You’re disgusting,” I snapped.
“And you’re blushing again,” he replied calmly.
I dropped the book and fled.
Another time, I nearly collided with him in the doorway. His hands shot out automatically—stopping just short of my waist.
The space between us burned.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
I nodded too fast.
“You’re trembling.”
“Because you scare me,” I said.
His gaze searched my face. “And because I don’t?”
My silence answered for me.
He exhaled slowly and stepped back. “That’s the part that worries me.”
It worried me too.
The worst moment came late one evening.
I was sitting on the edge of the bed, brushing my hair, when I felt him before I heard him. The bond stirred faintly—annoying, persistent.
“Don’t turn around,” he said from the doorway.
I stiffened. “Why not?”
“Because you’re already wound tight,” he replied. “And I’m trying not to enjoy that.”
My fingers curled in my hair.
“What do you want?” I asked quietly.
“To talk,” he said. “And to tease you a little.”
I scoffed. “Of course you do.”
He moved closer. I could see his reflection in the mirror now—unmasked, eyes dark, expression unreadable.
“You pull away every time I get close,” he said. “But your body keeps leaning in.”
“I can’t control that,” I whispered.
“I know,” he said softly. “That’s why I don’t touch you.”
His hand lifted—stopped inches from my shoulder.
The restraint in that small movement made my chest ache.
“You don’t get to feel guilty and tempting,” he murmured. “Pick one.”
A shaky laugh escaped me. “You’re impossible.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “But you’re still sitting there instead of running.”
I hated that he was right.
He leaned down, close enough that his breath brushed my ear. “You make the sweetest sounds when you’re flustered.”
My body reacted instantly—heat pooling low, breath stuttering.
I hated it.
I hated myself for it.
“Please stop,” I whispered, not because I wanted him to—but because I was afraid of how badly I didn’t.
He straightened immediately.
“I will,” he said, voice rough. “Because that look on your face? That’s not desire yet. That’s conflict.”
I looked up at him, stunned.
“I won’t take what you haven’t chosen,” he continued. “Even if every instinct in me wants to.”
He turned to leave.
“Collin,” I said without thinking.
He paused.
“Why do you keep doing this?” I asked. “The teasing. The closeness.”
He glanced back at me, eyes burning softly. “Because I want you to want me without fear.”
My throat closed.
“And because,” he added quietly, “if I stop pretending I don’t want you, I might lose control. So I settle for watching you blush.”
The door closed behind him.
I sank back onto the bed, shaking.
I hated how much I felt.
I hated how my body answered him even when my heart screamed no.
And I hated—most of all—that despite everything, some dangerous part of me was starting to wonder what would happen the day I stopped pulling away.
Because I wasn’t sure I’d survive it.
And I wasn’t sure he would either.