Moonbound by the Alpha’s Touch

 THE GIRL

I woke up wet again.

Not from sweat. From him.

Shoving the covers off, I get out of the bed and wince at the slice of sunlight pouring in from the window.

9:45 a.m. Shit!

I rush to the bathroom and start to brush my teeth. Memories of last night’s dream invade my thoughts, and my body tightens in response. Skin still tingles from where he touched me, His breath was warm against my neck. His fingers didn’t ask,they claimed, worshipped, coaxed until I couldn’t take it anymore. Every time I wake up, I swear I can still feel his hand between my legs. My fingers drift across my thigh, recreating his touch in small invisible lines. I catch a reflection of myself in the mirror, lids heavy, head tilted back, mouth slightly open.

No. No. No. I shake my head and snap back into the moment. I don’t have time for this. I’m already running late.

I quickly rinse out my mouth and splash a handful of water across my face, but no amount of scrubbing will remove the ghost of his mouth on my skin, or his soft, warm touch. Throwing on jeans, I nearly trip over my boots by the door.

This wasn’t new. Not really. The dreams had started a few years ago, when I turned eighteen. They used to come once in a while—faint, blurry visions that faded by morning. A brazen man with glowing eyes, blocking me from his face, a big black wolf in the dark woods, always watching. Sometimes I’d hear whispers, feel faint sensations of fingers skimming my skin. But back then, it felt like a fantasy. Something safe. Contained. Now… they were serious and frequent. Too frequent. 

The smell of crispy bacon hits me as I pad into the kitchen, where my best friend Brittany is flipping pancakes like someone on a cooking show, her curly hair packed into a bun at the base of her neck, wild strands escaping like they always do.

“Good morning, Moan-ica,” she sings without turning.

“Please don’t.”

“Come on.” She grins. “You were literally screaming. Like this-” she puts a hand to her chest and fakes a dream sex sigh, “uuh… uhh… yes, daddy!”

“Ohhh my god!” I bury my face into my hands. “Pleaseee.”

“You love me.” She laughs as she places three pancakes next to some bacon on a plate.

“Unfortunately, I do.” I plop onto a seat. “Wait, cinnamon?”

“You can smell that?” Her brows shoot up as she sets two mugs of coffee on the table, slowly sliding one toward me. “Your crazy nose always surprises me. I was just about to tell you I tried something different.”

The burnt, bitter taste makes me almost want to spit it out. “I’m sorry, Britts,” I cough. “This is terrible.”

“It’s not that bad,” she takes a sip and almost chokes. “Okay, okay.” She carries both mugs and pours the forbidden mixture down the sink.

“You’ll get it next time.” Miss Masterchef contestant wannabe needs all the encouragement she can get.

“Yeah, whatever.” She pushes a forkful of bacon into her mouth. “Hmm. So. Are we finally going to talk about it? These dreams?” Her face contorts as she forces down the large bite. “Because I’m starting to think you’re having better sex in your sleep than most of us do awake.”

“They’re just dreams,” I mutter, stabbing a pancake. “Weird ones.”

“Yeah. Weirdly repetitive,” she nods with a mouthful.

I glance out the window. The sky is clear, winter-bright, snow clinging to rooftops like powdered sugar. The moon must’ve been huge last night. No wonder it all felt so real.

“I’ve been stressed,” I lie. “Internship, work. You know.” She doesn’t buy it, but lets it go.

I don’t expect her to believe me anyways. But I don’t know how else to explain it to her without sounding crazy, or worrying her. How do I explain that a force keeps calling out to me when I sleep, something pulling me to a place I don’t know. Like I’m supposed to be somewhere else. Sometimes I wonder if something in me broke after the crash. Not just grief—something else. Like the part that connects me to this world didn’t wire back properly. And now… now I’m just waiting to wake up in the right one.

“Maybe you’re just starved for real,” she forces the last forkful of pancakes into her mouth. “I think you just need the real deal. Some good old pounding.”

“Brittany!” She grins, and I shake my head. “Aren’t you late for a class right now?” She checks her phone and her eyes widen. She downs a gulp of water and runs to her room.

“Think about it though,” she calls from inside, “I know a lot of guys will fuck you in a heartbeat.”

I bury my face in my hands and stare at the remnant of my breakfast. I don’t have an appetite anymore. “Hurry up, please. Let’s go get some real coffee.”

                                  ⸻

By the time I clock in at the library, I’ve almost stopped thinking about the dream. Almost.

The caffeine helps, sort of. At least it removes the aftertaste of Brittany’s poison. I take a slow sip as I settle behind the circulation desk, pulling out my planner and pretending like I’m the sort of person who plans ahead.

There’s a paper due Monday, something about gender dynamics in contemporary literature I haven’t started yet.

A few students trickle in—quiet, heads down. It’s a typical Friday crowd for between morning classes, multiple scents of watered down espresso with artificial sweeteners filling the air.

But something is different today. A different scent penetrates the air, a deep, earthy, woody smell that tugs at the hair in my nostrils. I’ve never smelled anything like this before. It’s confusing, yet comforting.

And then. He walks in.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with glasses on and dressed in black.

My hand freezes on the coffee cup. I have never seen this man before, but he’s carrying the kind of air that makes everything around him feel heavier.

He walks straight toward the desk. No smile. Just this straight, unreadable look, like he’s sizing me up. Like he knows something I don’t. Now that he’s right in front of me, I get a better whiff of his scent. It’s like a mix of pine and sap. I take a long inhale and realize he’s staring right at me.

“Excuse me,” he says, voice deep and smooth. “I was wondering where I could find the other edition of this.” He lifts up the book to show me.

THE NORTON ANTHOLOGY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. Vol. 1

Shit. Now that I’m taking a better look at him, he looks older. His coat definitely doesn’t look like one a student can afford. I’m supposed to start a new course next week. What if this is some movie-type situation and I just creeped my professor out by sniffing him like a dog? He’s going to see me in class and everything will be awkward.

Oh wow, Elowen. Just wow.

Please don’t be faculty. Please don’t be faculty. Please, for the love of sanity and student loan debt, don’t be a professor.

“Yes,” I manage. “Yes. Um. It should be in General Fiction, but I can check the system for you.”

He nods once, hands in the pockets of his coat. Cold as ice.

I swivel to the computer, praying he can’t see how red my face is. My pulse is doing something weird. Like it wants to leap out of my skin and run screaming into traffic.

“You, uh… you smell nice,” I say, out loud.

Out loud.

His brow lifts a fraction. “Excuse me?”

“I mean—” I laugh. It’s a weird, high-pitched laugh I’ve never made in my life. “I just… noticed. It’s nice. Deep. Like… a deep smell.”

What the actual hell, Elowen?!

“Right.” He looks vaguely uncomfortable. Or maybe annoyed. His expression doesn’t change much.

“I was just wondering what perfume it is,” I say, doubling down like a fool. “Cologne. Whatever. You don’t have to tell me. Obviously. That would be weird.”

Of course, Elowen. That would be weird.

“Volume Two.”

“Huh?” I blink at him, wondering what type of cologne that is before I realize he wasn’t talking about scents.

“I need the Volume Two.” He taps the book on the desk.

“Oh.”

Silence.

I turn back to the computer, desperate to focus. “Okay. Looks like we have two copies. One’s out, but the other should be on shelf 812.1.”

“Thank you.”

He turns without another word, disappearing down the aisle.

I collapse into my chair and drop my face into my hands.