Chapter 52

ALPHA TRISTAN 

I watched her fall to the ground and mop through the high-definition monitors in my office. She cried for some time—low, soul-aching sobs that I could almost hear through the glass—before she finally picked herself up and continued scrub-cleaning the marble floor. I knew deep down that I was being far too hard on her, pushing her toward a precipice she wasn't built to navigate anymore, but she was determined to make me look like a fool. She held onto that Lockwood pride like a shield, and I was determined to shatter it.

The daggers were already out in this house, and I was not going to be the one who fell on them. One thing, however, stood out above the rest: seeing her in that "sultry" outfit turned me on greatly, in ways I couldn't have imagined even in my darkest fantasies. I had to physically walk away from the monitors to hide the prominent bulge that was forming in the front of my tailored pants.

The strange thing about the new living arrangement was that, despite the luxury of the East Wing, there was only one bed in the suite. When I returned later in the evening, exhausted from meetings and internal pack politics, I found her laying down on the cold, hard floor. The sight of her curled up like a discarded rag broke a part of my heart I thought had already died with Claudia.

"Come to the bed," I told her, my voice gravelly. She looked up at me, her eyes wide and surprised.

"Master, may I come to the bed?" she asked weakly, her voice trembling as she followed the protocol I had so cruelly established.

"I believe I said exactly that. Don't make me repeat myself," I snapped in a firmer, more authoritative voice.

She stood up slowly, her movements stiff, and laid on the bed next to me. Then, she did something strange. She placed a thick pillow between us, a physical barrier in our shared space. "Please keep your hands to yourself. Good night," she murmured before reaching over and turning off her bedside lamp.

I lay there in the dark, looking at her silhouette and the curve of her arse. As usual, she was wearing a red bikini that left very little to the imagination. Her curvy frame was making it nearly impossible for me to concentrate on sleep, as I had a raging, painful hard-on. From the road I had walked to get here, it would be a long, impossible journey to walk back. Retraction was not an option. The only other choice was to forge ahead and get her to finally give in—to get her to accept her place and surrender her mind and her body for my absolute pleasure.

I woke up in a panic. The building was on fire. The scent of smoke and ozone was thick in the air, and I tried to stand up from the bed, but I couldn't move. It seemed like I was chained to the mattress with heavy, invisible links. The fire was roaring all around me, consuming the walls and the floor, except for the bed itself, which remained untouched by the flames.

"Sara! Sara!!" I roared, calling out for her, but there was no answer, only the crackle of burning timber.

I don’t know how it happened, but the scene suddenly flipped with the jarring logic of a dream. Yvonne was standing beside the bedside, wearing a white two-piece suit and red six-inch heels, holding a galvanized bucket. "You betrayed me, Tristan, and now you're going to pay for it," she said, her voice distorted and cold. She tipped the bucket, pouring the contents over me. It wasn't water. It was the sharp, pungent scent of gasoline.

"Fuck!! Yvonne! What the fuck are you—" I began to cuss when I heard a familiar voice drifting from nowhere, pulling me toward the surface of consciousness.

"Breathe, Tristan. Breathe. You are just having a nightmare. Breathe. It's just a dream."

The voice kept repeating the mantra until I finally forced my eyes open. I found Sara looking down at me, her palms resting gently against my cheeks, her thumbs smoothing the sweat from my brow.

"What the fuck?" I cussed, the adrenaline still surging, even though I loved looking into those blue eyes and desperately wanted to lean into her soothing touch.

"I saw you tossing and turning, and I figured you were probably having a bad dream. Obviously, you are fine now," she said, her voice losing its softness as she pulled away. She stood up and casually took off her bikini top. "I think it's far too hot in here," she noted before heading toward the shower.

It was only then that I realized I had a prominent hard-on, and she must have seen it in the dim light. Was she trying to punish me? To tease me? Because that was the first time she had ever been so bold.

The Breaking Point

By morning, the softness of the night had vanished. I decided to turn the pressure up. "Did I not tell you to ask for permission before you do anything in this house?"

"You did... Master," she sighed, her shoulders slumping.

"Yet you placed your hands on me last night and invaded my personal space. Who gave you permission to do that?" I scolded her in an icy tone, trying to bury the memory of her touch.

"I'm sorry... Master."

"'I'm sorry' is not the answer to my question. You also went to bathe last night; who gave you the permission for that?"

"I'm sorry... Master."

"Obviously, you have refused to learn the rules of your stay. Perhaps you'll learn them the hard way," I threatened.

"I'm sorry. I was scared something had happened to you. I didn't know what to do. It will never happen again," she pleaded, but my mind was made up. I had to remain the Alpha.

The marble floors of my penthouse were spotless, yet I made her scrub them again from one end to the other. If she wouldn't be my mistress, she would be my scullery maid. It was a brutal test of wills—my Alpha authority against her legendary Lockwood pride. She was stubborn, matching me move for move, ignoring the plush bed and the silk robes I’d provided in favor of a ragged tunic and a bucket of lye. This was a silent act of defiance, and I was determined to ensure that she lost.

I sat at my mahogany desk, pretending to read border reports from the northern territories, but my eyes kept tracking her. "Are you okay?" I asked when I first sensed a shift in her energy.

"I'm fine," she said with a heavy, labored sigh, her body drenched in sweat. "I just need to catch my breath, and I'll be fine."

Yet, my wolf—the beast that sensed the truth beneath the skin—told me something was horribly wrong. Especially today. Was she finally at her breaking point? Without her wolf to provide superhuman endurance, she was moving with a sluggishness that should have satisfied my desire for control. Instead, it made my chest feel tight with an unwanted anxiety.

Then, the rhythmic sound of the scrub brush stopped.

I looked up sharply. Sara was slumped over the bucket, her forehead resting against the cold, wet stone.

"Get up, Sara," I commanded, though my voice lacked its usual bite and authority. "The hallway isn't finished yet."

She didn't move. A beat of heavy silence passed, and then her body tipped sideways, hitting the floor with a sickeningly soft thud.

Indifference had been my shield for months, but it shattered the moment I saw her unresponsive face. I was across the room before I could even process the movement, my heart hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm against my ribs. I scooped her up—she was terrifyingly light, her skin clammy and deathly pale.

"Leon! Get in here! Now!" I roared into the intercom, my Alpha command vibrating through the entire floor.

When the pack doctor arrived, I didn't just request his help; I forced it. I stood over him like a dark specter, my shadows looming and radiating a protective instinct that felt like a direct betrayal to Claudia’s memory. I hated myself for the way I hovered, for the way I held her limp hand until Leon finally pulled it away to check her pulse.

"Exhaustion," Leon sighed, packing his medical kit after administering a saline drip. "And she's human now, Tristan. She doesn't have the stamina or the regenerative properties of a wolf to bounce back from the amount of stress you're putting her under. Bed rest. Absolute bed rest for three full days, or her heart will simply give out."

Regret is a slow-acting poison, and I was drinking it in liters. Once Leon left, I found that I physically couldn't leave her side. I am the Alpha of the Twilight Zone, a man who commands thousands, yet I spent the entire afternoon fetching cool cloths and fresh water. I adjusted her pillows. I watched the steady rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. I was her errand boy, and I loathed the part of me that found a strange, quiet peace in it.

When her eyes finally fluttered open, I was right there, holding a glass of water to her parched lips.

"Drink," I muttered, my voice sounding rough and unpracticed.

She looked at me for a long while, her gaze unfocused. I nodded again, encouraging her to drink. She took a small sip, her blue eyes searching mine with a confusing mix of suspicion and bone-deep exhaustion. "Why are you being nice to me, Tristan?"

I stiffened, looking away at the sprawling city skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows. "I’m not being 'nice.' I’m taking responsibility for your current situation. You’re my property; I have a vested interest in keeping my property functional and alive."

Sara let out a weak, bitter laugh that turned into a cough. "Property. Is that what you tell yourself? You’re acting like a man who actually cares, but you’re far too afraid to admit it to yourself." She paused, her gaze turning sharp despite her fatigue. "You should let me go, Tristan. Forgive me for the past and just... let me disappear. Yvonne is in love with you—she’s the one who deserves your attention, not a prisoner, not this slave girl that means absolutely nothing to you."

The mention of Yvonne made my jaw ache with tension. "You killed Claudia," I reminded her, pulling the old cruelty back on like a familiar mask. "You forfeited your life the moment she died. Don’t confuse a moment of basic care for weakness. I am not done with you yet."

Sara sighed and tried to push herself up, her arms shaking. "I can't stay in this bed. I have work to—"

She didn't even make it to her feet. A sharp cry of pain escaped her as her knees buckled under her weight. I moved instinctively, catching her before she could hit the floor again. Her body was pressed flush against mine, her heat soaking directly into my skin.

I looked down, intending to scold her for her recklessness, but the words died in my throat. Our faces were only inches apart. Her lips were slightly parted, her breath ghosting over my skin. In the dim, golden light of the penthouse, I didn't see a murderer. I saw the woman who had saved me, the woman I wanted with a primal, possessive hunger that drowned out the ghosts of my past.

My gaze dropped to her mouth, my mind a lethal cocktail of love and lust. I leaned in, my heart stopping as my lips finally met hers.

It wasn't a soft, tentative kiss. It was a claim.

Sara went rigid in my arms. She didn't fight me, but she didn't return the kiss either; she stayed frozen, her eyes wide with a shock that mirrored my own dawning realization. But she allowed the intrusion, letting me taste the sweetness of her breath as the heat between us began to spiral into something dangerous.

CRASH.

The sound of shattering ceramic exploded through the quiet room like a gunshot.

I jerked back, my head snapping toward the door. Yvonne stood there, dressed in a white two-piece and red six-inch heels, looking exactly as she had in my nightmare. Her face was a mask of devastated, raw horror. A porcelain mug lay in jagged shards at her feet, coffee staining the expensive white rug like a dark, spreading wound.

"Tristan?" she whispered, her voice trembling with a pain I couldn't ignore.

"Yvonne—I... it’s not what it looks like," I started, my Alpha composure utterly failing me. I began to stutter, my hands still gripping Sara’s waist as if I couldn't bear to let her go even now. "She was falling, and I—"

Beside me, Sara didn't say a word. She just looked at Yvonne, a slow, knowing, and almost pitying smile touching her lips as she shook her head. The silence she maintained was more damning than any confession I could have made.