Jane

Jane's POV 

The door closed behind him with a soft thud, and I was alone with my thoughts, in the chaos of his office, surrounded by his scent. The leftover heat of his touch is still clinging to my skin.

I remained by the desk, my hands gripping the edge for support, my heart pounding harder than it should. My body was still humming from the way the whip had traced over my skin. Why am I feeling this way? Why do I feel something deeper? something darker? Something tugged at a place inside me, a place I didn’t understand.

What the hell is happening to me?

Just when I thought I could finally breathe, the door creaked open again. He stepped in, his eyes scanning the room like he expected something to have changed.

"The coffee is cold," he said, his tone flat. "Make another. And this time… do it yourself. I don’t want Josephine’s help."

I blinked, confused by his unexpected requests. I don't even know how he takes his coffee. "Y-yes, Alpha Liam." 

I hurried out, back through the corridor, past curious eyes that pretended not to stare. My mind was spinning. Why me again? What difference would it make if I made the coffee?

Despite all the questions, I still obeyed. In the kitchen, I grabbed all the ingredients I needed. I mixed the coffee, no sugar, just honey and cream. Just the same way I mixed it for elder Thorne, Theo's father. 

The smell usually triggers something in me. I don't know why but I get the smell from somewhere. It was familiar, yet frustratingly blank. I remembered the recipe perfectly. Two spoons of grounded dark roast, a pinch of crushed clove, honey instead of sugar, and just a little cream. 

But how did I know that? Someone used the same recipe but I couldn’t remember learning it. Not from the orphanage, not from Theo, and definitely not from the pack kitchen. It was as if it had always been inside me, waiting.

I shook the thought away and finished the brew, poured it carefully into the delicate cup, placed it on the tray, and carried it back to his office with nervous fingers.

"Your coffee," I said quietly, placing it on the clear spot I had made earlier.

He didn’t answer. He just reached for the cup, brought it to his lips, and sipped.

I stood still, not breathing, waiting for his comment. 

Then… his jaw moved slightly, his tongue brushing the corner of his mouth. A flicker of surprise passed through his eyes and I saw it. He didn’t say a word, but the silence spoke louder.

He liked it. He was pleased. Internally, I was dancing for joy. 

He placed the cup down slowly, then looked up at me. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were softer than before. 

“And where did you get this recipe, bunny?” he asked.

This name again…. “I don't know,” I said.

"You don't know?," he echoed, leaning back in his chair. "Or you stole someone's recipe?"

"No, I didn't steal anyone's recipe. I don't even remember how I learned it.”

He picked up the cup again and sipped, not breaking eye contact.

“Alpha Liam,” I said, hesitantly. “If you don’t mind… I could clean the office. Arrange the shelves. It wouldn’t take long.”

His gaze lifted from his cup, sharp and suspicious.

“No,” he said flatly. “Go.”

But I didn’t move.

“Please,” I whispered. “It’s the least I can do. I can’t just be sitting around doing nothing. Let me do something useful.”

He looked at me, long and hard, as though trying to see through me. “Fine,” he muttered finally, leaning back in his chair. “Just don’t break anything.”

Relief poured through me like warm water. I smiled and turned to the shelves.

The books were in a chaotic mess. Their titles were hidden beneath dust, pages sticking out, their old leather spines bent out of shape. I started from the lower rows, slowly pulling out each book and setting them aside in neat piles. 

I moved quietly, efficiently. To my surprise , alpha Liam was behind me. Every time I reached for something, he moved too. 

His arms brushed against mine, sending a sensational feeling. The heat of his presence behind my back, the way his chest almost touched me when we reached for the same book, it all sparked something deep in my bones. A tension I couldn't understand. 

But I wanted more. I played along, enjoying this side of him. “Blood and wolf?” I asked, touching a particular thick book. 

“That one’s about bloodline history,” he said when I held it up. “It was written by a half-mad seer,” he added.

His answers were brief, but still it felt like a conversation. I wanted to continue, so I grabbed a book tucked behind the others. 

The book was so old it looked like it had survived a fire. Its edges were burnt, and blackened. The title had long faded away, and the cover was cracked with age.

“What about this one?” I asked, pointing to it without touching. “Why are you keeping it?”

He didn’t reply.

I glanced at him, waiting for him to answer but his eyes were already on the book. His whole body had stiffened and a warning look etched on his face. 

And still… I touched it. The moment my fingers brushed it, something happened. 

A strange warmth shot up my arm. It was not painful, it was intense. It was like the book recognized me. Like it knew me. My breath caught in my throat, and my hand froze in place, unable and unwilling to move. It felt like it was mine, like something I lost but finally found. 

Suddenly, his hand was on mine, wrenching it away.

“Don’t touch that,” he snapped.

His voice was low but thunderous, anger wrapped tightly in restraint. He snatched the book from my hands and stepped back as though he didn’t want it near me.

I stared at him, confused and shaken.

“What is it?” I asked, still feeling the echo of the heat in my palm. “Why does it feel like…”

“Get out, Jane.” His voice was cold like a sharp steel.

I opened my mouth to talk, but nothing came out.

“Now,” he added, his jaw clenched, his eyes stormy with something I couldn't name. 

I swallowed hard, lowered my eyes, and left the room. But as I walked down the corridor, my hand still tingled, and the memory of the book’s warmth still burned softly in my skin. It felt like something that had been waiting for me.