CHAPTER 5: HEALTHY COHABITATION

"If you don't open this damn door in the next three seconds, Alistair, I swear to the Moon Goddess I am going to piss directly into your Italian shoes."

I kick the solid mahogany with the sole of my boot. The echo rings down the entire hallway of the Alpha's ridiculous mansion. My bladder is on the verge of declaring independence. Getting to this penthouse after leaving the pizza joint was a logistical hell thanks to the disgusting cosmic magnet, and now my body is demanding I empty out the pizza and cola I just had for dinner.

The lock clicks. The door is yanked open.

Alistair is standing in the doorway. His black hair is a mess, dark circles shadow his sharp cheekbones, and he’s wearing a pair of grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips. His torso is completely bare. My brain registers his abs—carved like blocks of granite—but my bladder is screaming a hell of a lot louder than my hormones.

"Do you have to yell like a savage at three in the morning?" the great Alpha grumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose. His voice is rough, raspy from lack of sleep.

"And do you have to lock yourself in the bathroom knowing that if you get more than sixteen feet away, you're going to drag me through the wall?" I cross my arms and shove past his bare shoulder. "Move. I have a biological emergency."

I step into the bathroom and freeze. This isn't a bathroom; it’s a damn spa the size of my entire apartment. There's black marble everywhere, brushed gold faucets, and a bathtub in the center that looks like an Olympic swimming pool.

"The sixteen-foot limit reaches exactly to the double vanity," Alistair announces, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "I need to shower to wash the alleyway stench off me. I have a board meeting first thing in the morning to explain why I abandoned my own gala."

I look at the shower. It’s a transparent glass box in the corner opposite the toilet. Zero privacy. Minimalist design for exhibitionist millionaires.

"Great. Then you’ll have to smell like wet dog at your meeting, because I am not doing my business while you stare at me from your glass fishbowl."

"I have absolutely zero interest in looking at you, Violeta."

"Oh, really? Well, your wolf disagrees, because he won't stop projecting waves of curiosity through the bond." I chop my hand through the air between us. "We need ground rules. Now. The Bathroom Treaty."

Alistair clenches his jaw. He knows I’m right. If one of us moves too far, the other goes flying.

"Fine," he mutters, grabbing a thick towel off the shelf. "I get in the shower. You stay on the toilet."

"The shower is see-through, genius."

Alistair growls, stalks over to his adjoining walk-in closet (maintaining the sixteen-foot radius, which forces me to take two clumsy steps backward), and returns with a black silk tie. Without a word, he wraps it around his head, covering his eyes completely.

"Satisfied?" the billionaire asks, standing in the middle of the marble floor blindfolded like he's about to face a firing squad.

I bite the inside of my cheek to hold back a laugh that would ruin my intimidating posture.

"It works. Get in the glass box and turn on the water. I’ll let you know when I’m done."

Alistair walks blindly, feeling the air like a zombie. He trips over the edge of the bathtub and lets out a curse very unbecoming of a CEO. He steps into the glass cabin and turns the dial. The hot water hits the tiles, filling the massive bathroom with steam almost instantly.

I sit on the toilet, closing the lid for a second to process the utter absurdity of my life, and then get comfortable. To block out the sound of the water and ensure my dignity remains fully intact, I grab a magazine from a basket next to the sink. It’s a publication about luxury yachts. I start aggressively flipping the glossy pages, making as much noise as humanly possible.

"The hundred-foot Azimut model costs ten million dollars," I read out loud, just to annoy him. "Who the hell spends ten million on a boat? You could buy pizza for the whole pack for fifty years with that."

"People who don't want to be surrounded by loud people on dry land," Alistair fires back from the shower. His voice echoes off the glass, mixing with the sound of the water.

The scent of his body wash starts flooding the space. Eucalyptus, mint, and cedarwood. It’s a clean, aggressive, and stupidly masculine smell. My wolf takes a deep breath, rubbing her nose in my mind.

He smells like Alpha. He smells like our Alpha, the beast murmurs, purring.

He smells like expensive soap and arrogance. Focus on the magazine, I answer her.

I flip another page loudly. Alistair is washing his hair blind. I can see his blurry silhouette through the steam-fogged glass. The water cascades down the muscles of his back, tracing over scars I hadn't noticed last night during the chaos. He has claw marks slashing across his shoulder blades, thick, old scars that clash hard with his rich-office-boy life.

I force myself to stare at an ad for Swiss watches in the magazine. I am not here to feel empathy for the guy who rejected me in front of a hundred snobs. I am here to survive.