Stupid Alpha Aura

After saying goodbye to Bailey, I head towards rehearsals, feet practically bouncing in anticipation.

I weave between stalls, the hum of pre-festival chatter around me, but stop short when I see him — leaning against the edge of the square, half-shifted, green eyes glinting under the lanterns.

Damon.

Watching the festival like it belongs to him.

For a second, I pray he won’t notice me.

He turns immediately.

“Micaela.” His voice is smooth. Like silk dragged over glass. “I thought you’d be hiding somewhere quieter.”

I force a smile.

I try not to allow any of the annoyance and remnant of anger I was feeling at seeing him seep into my words.

I failed.

His face just doesn't help.

“Why? Planning to ram another tree if I don’t?”

His gaze drifts lazily over me. Not rushed. Not embarrassed.

Measured.

“You’re still talking about that?” he asks. “I didn’t realize it left such an impression.”

“Oh, it did,” I say brightly. “Especially the part where you shifted naked over me. Very theatrical. I considered applauding.”

A pause.

His smile stills.

“You seem to remember it vividly,” he says.

He doesn't sound defensive or flustered. Just... certain.

Heat pricks my neck. I ignore it.

“I remember screaming.”

“And yet,” he replies mildly, “you keep bringing it up.”

I refuse to react to that. I cross my arms and try to sound neutral instead. “You nearly injured yourself trying to look intimidating.”

His eyes sharpen just a fraction.

“Is that what you think I was doing?”

“What else?" I ask, sarcastically. "Forestry vandalism for sport?”

A ghost of amusement curves his mouth. “You talk a lot for someone who couldn’t move.”

He is calm. Too calm. His gaze steady.

I feel insulted.

But step closer anyway.

“You’re the future Alpha,” I say softly. “I wonder how that was your grand display?”

Now something shifts in his expression. His fingers curls slightly into fist.

I feel a brief moment of victory.

People nearby quiet without meaning to. The air tightens.

“You seem very comfortable saying my title,” he says. “For someone who doesn’t respect it.”

“I remember exactly who you are.”

His head tilts slightly.

“Do you?”

His words aren't loud. But somehow they are more threatening.

I glance around deliberately. “Careful. It looks like you’re losing composure.”

His eyes flick briefly toward the onlookers.

Then back to me.

Composed and Unbothered now.

I feel it then.

Like a weight around me. Invisible. But there. It presses against my ribs and reminds me he was born to command.

Stupid Alpha Aura. I hate whenever he does that.

He steps forward.

Slowly.

He is close enough that warmth bleeds into my skin.

“Don’t mistake patience for weakness,” he says quietly.

I step back before I can stop myself.

Damn it.

His eyes drop briefly to the movement.

There. That’s the victory.

My retreat.

And even though he doesn't show it, I know he enjoys the sight of it.

“If I truly lost control, Micaela,” he states, eyes never leaving mine, “You wouldn't be standing.”

I realise that there is no threat in his tone.

He says it like it's just fact.

“If I truly lost control,” he continues, almost conversational, “we wouldn't be in this square having this discussion.”

He leans back.

The pressure eases instantly.

His smile returns. Controlled and polished.

“Enjoy your rehearsal.”

And he walks away first.

I can feel my blood boiling underneath my skin as I turn and storm down the road.

Not because he threatened me.

Not because of that stupid Alpha aura.

But because I stepped back.

I stepped back.

I had thought he wanted to humiliate me.

He didn’t.

He just wanted a reaction.

And I gave him exactly what he wanted.

Aargh!