82

ALEXANDER

Alina’s throat rises and falls against the edge of my dagger. The blade is close enough that if she so much as twitches, it will open her skin. She knows it. That is why she stands there like stone, her chest barely lifting with each shallow breath, as if she is afraid that even the movement of air will cut her.

The feeling in my chest is sharp and bitter, like I’ve swallowed something that burns on the way down. I hate it. Betrayal. Is that what it tastes like? It is not the exact same as when I learned my so-called father was the one who ordered the attack that killed my mother, but it is close enough to scrape against the same wound. And that alone is enough to make me want to tear something apart. I swore I would never let myself feel this way again, yet here I am, staring down at the one person who should never have given me a reason to.

Because thanks to her, every time I close my eyes, I see her in someone else’s arms. My brother’s arms.

Claude had better have the kind of explanation that keeps his lungs in his chest when I’m done with him.

I drag my gaze back to the woman the moon chose for me. She should belong entirely to me. No wandering eyes. No other hands touching her. That is how it should be. That is what I expect.

A small, almost inaudible whimper escapes her, and I realize I’ve pushed the dagger forward without thinking. The tip bites her skin, just enough to nick it. A bead of red wells against the silver. My jaw tightens, and before I can register the thought, I’m yanking the blade away, tossing it aside with a clatter. My thumb presses to the cut, covering it. Her blood should not be there. Not from me.

It doesn’t heal instantly. I’m reminded again how slow her healing has been. Too slow for a healthy mate. There is a reason for that, I’m sure of it.

Lycan saliva, especially from an alpha, can close wounds on their mate. It’s a rare, intimate practice, something done in moments of care, not rage. But I’m not thinking about propriety right now. All I see is that cut, and I want it gone. I want her whole. I hate seeing her hurt.

“I’m sorry,” I hear myself saying, over and over, my thumb brushing her skin, cleaning away the red. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Her breaths come out uneven, ragged. When I glance at her face, her eyes are closed tight. For a second, I think the cut hurts more than I realized, but then I see her fists clenched at her sides, knuckles white from how hard she’s holding herself together.

“Alina.” Her name leaves my mouth in something almost like a plea. “Alina, look at me.”

She shakes her head, still trying to control her breathing. The wound is already sealing, only a faint redness left, but most of that is from my own roughness, not the blade.

“Look. At. Me.” My voice shifts without my permission, deeper, commanding. She obeys.

The moment her eyes meet mine, the breath stops in my chest. They are glowing so bright they almost look translucent. I cannot look away. Her gaze locks me in place, and for a moment, I forget the weapon, the anger, everything.

Her mouth parts slightly as she exhales, and the soft, shaky sound curls through me, tightening every muscle in my body. This is not the time. I know it. But my cock does not care about timing or reason. Heat rushes to my groin, and I feel myself harden.

She keeps staring, her eyes like deep, empty pools that still manage to swallow me whole. A strange pressure wraps around me, as if she is the center of a storm and I am caught in the pull, tossed in every direction while still anchored in place. It makes no sense, yet it is all I feel.

“What’s happening?” Her whisper trembles, and I straighten to my full height, towering over her.

She looks confused, but her eyes… they are something else entirely. Something ancient. Something I have never seen before.

I lift my hand to her face, cupping her cheek, my thumb tracing under her eye. Her lips part further, and she catches my wrist, holding me there like she can’t stand the thought of me pulling away. A soft, almost desperate whimper slips out of her. She leans forward, pressing her cheek into my palm.

“Alina.” Her name comes out a warning this time, but she doesn’t break the stare.

“Please.” Her voice is thin, almost fragile. She moves closer, until the space between us is gone. “Please. Please.”

The words fall from her like a chant, but there is no shape to the plea. If someone demanded I explain what she was begging for, I wouldn’t be able to. I doubt she could tell me herself.

“Please what? I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what you want.” I keep my tone even, softer than I feel, because something in her looks lost.

She shakes her head again, ignoring my question. Her hands slide up and around me, clinging to my back. Her body presses fully to mine, and I feel the heat instantly. Not the metaphorical kind. Actual heat. Her skin burns against my palms where her shirt has ridden up.

I jerk slightly at the touch. She is on fire.

What the hell is happening?

I rack my brain for any reason her body temperature would spike like this, but nothing comes. She doesn’t seem to notice or care. She keeps shifting against me, grinding just enough to make my blood thrum harder, keeping my thoughts tangled.

My cock strains against my pants, and with all the blood flooding south, thinking clearly becomes almost impossible.

“Fuck,” I mutter, and before I can talk myself out of it, I scoop her into my arms.

Her legs wrap around my waist instantly, like she has been waiting for me to do it. When the hard length of my cock presses against her, she moans quietly. Loud enough to send a shiver down my spine. She shifts again, forcing a groan from my throat.

I don’t remember deciding where to go. My body takes us to the bathroom. The cold water roars from the showerhead before I step in with her.

The temperature shift is instant, but she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t gasp. Doesn’t even blink. Her arms stay locked around me, her breathing steady in a way that makes no sense at all.

Something is wrong. Very wrong.

I open the mind link to the doctor. My words are sharp, telling her to get here now. Her answer carries a hint of worry, which makes me even more certain she knows more than she’s said. She has test results she claimed she couldn’t discuss with me yet. I was going to confront her soon. Now she won’t get the choice. She will tell me everything, or she won’t leave this house.

But for now, I have one priority. Keep Alina from burning alive in my arms. Her temperature keeps climbing, and every second it rises, I know it’s not just heat, it seems like a warning.

And it is not a good one.