Chapter 17 – The Unraveling

Kieran

I don't stalk back to my study. I retreat with my tail between my legs.

My movements are stiff, precise, a desperate imitation of the control I no longer feel.

I can sense the eyes of the entire pack on my back. I don’t look at Tarek. I don’t look at Vorlag. I especially don’t look at Marcus, whose concerned, questioning gaze I can feel boring into the side of my head.

I just walk. Each step is an agony of feigned composure, a performance of an Alpha who is not, in fact, trembling.

The heavy study door slams shut behind me, the thud echoing the final, definitive sound of my authority shattering. The lock clicks, and I finally let my body betray me.

I lean back against the solid oak, my chest heaving, legs trembling so violently I’m surprised they carried me this far. My ribs scream where his shoulder connected. My wrists ache from his grip. My throat feels raw from the pressure of his forearm.

My reflection stares back at me from the polished, dark wood of a tall cabinet.

My hair, normally perfectly styled, is a wild mess, plastered to my temples with sweat. There’s a smear of dirt across my cheek and a wild, hunted, look in my eyes. I’m grateful for the fact that the reflection is too dark to show just how flushed I am.

The image that stares back at me is a disheveled, wrecked young man who looks like he’s just been thoroughly... well, handled.

A choked, furious sound rips from my throat. I shove away from the door and pace to the center of the room, my mind a chaotic storm.

He won.

Alexei Basov, with his brute strength and his insufferable, knowing grin, pinned me and held me down in front of my pack, my warriors and my council.

I’m not upset about that. I let my anger tell me I can challenge a wolf who grew up brawling, and weighs about twice as much as I do. I was never going to win a fight against him. That’s not the infuriating part.

He saw my humiliation. He saw my fury. And he felt the hot, traitorous, shameful reaction of my body. He felt me hard against his stomach. I know he did. He knew I was aroused by him. He knew it, and he leaned in.

“I rather like you squirming beneath me.”

The memory of his voice, that low, intimate, amused purr in my ear, makes a fresh wave of heat and humiliation crash over me. I slam my fist onto my desk, rattling the inkwell. He didn't just pin me, he relished it. He played with me. He saw my body’s betrayal, and it delighted him.

And I...

I let him.

I’m furious at him, a white-hot, blinding rage that makes my hands shake. But beneath that, so much stronger and more terrifying, I’m furious at myself. Because the most disgusting, terrifying part of it all?

I liked it.

My body, my treacherous, stupid body, liked it. When he tackled me, when his weight settled on me, when I was completely, utterly overpowered by another Alpha, it made me feel alive.

For the first time in weeks, the crushing weight of leadership, the endless political games with Vorlag, the paranoia about Brannagh, the reports, the ledgers... it all evaporated.

There was only that moment. The heat. The impact. The intoxicating, primal simplicity of being matched. Of being touched.

The last time I felt anything close to this... My breath catches, a painful hitch in my chest.

I pace the room, agitated, running a shaking hand through my hair.

I’d been a fool then. A 22-year-old idiot, so starved for a genuine connection, I’d projected all my own romantic, courtly ideals onto him.

Alexei doesn’t play by any rules that I understand.

The dawning horror of it sinks into me, cold and sharp. I stop pacing, standing very still in the center of the room. My entire arsenal, the only weapons I have ever known how to wield masterfully, is useless against him.

My polished charm? He sees it as "glitter" and mocks it.

My sarcastic, witty retorts? He just grins, calls me "pretty prince," and agrees with me, stealing the weapon from my hand.

My political maneuvering? He doesn't care. He doesn't want to rule.

My Alpha command? He just meets it with his own, amused and unimpressed.

I am completely, utterly out of my depth.

I sink into my chair, my head falling into my hands. The man who just pinned me isn't just a Redmaw brute. He’s the one person in this keep I have no defense against. He sees the mask, rips it off, and then looks at me like he wants to lick me all over.

He saw my vulnerability in the armory. He identified my heartbreak over Eli. And what did he do? He used it. He used it to provoke me into challenging him. He knew exactly what he was doing. He wanted to get me into the ring. He wanted to get his hands on me, to see if his guess was right. To see if he could break my control.

And he did. He didn't just win, he proved his point.

I’m terrified. Not just of him, or the war, or Vorlag’s fearmongering. I’m terrified of these feelings.

This isn't just a physical reaction anymore. It’s the intoxicating, terrifying thrill of being seen and not immediately discarded.

He saw me hard and squirming on the ground, and he smiled. As if he likes the real, flawed, messy person under the mask.

I’m afraid of making a fool of myself again. I’m not ready to gamble with my heart again. But how do you fight an opponent who won’t play by your rules?

And he’s 20 years old. He’s younger than I am! I’m the Alpha of this pack. I’m supposed to be in control.

I laugh, a harsh, dry sound in the empty room. I am in control of nothing. Least of all myself.