The Evil Alpha next door

The damn key wouldn’t turn. I stood on my mother’s porch, jiggling the stubborn lock. June in Ridgeway Oaks was already brutal—all humidity and breathless heat that made my tank top cling to my skin.

“Come on,” I muttered, giving it one last aggressive twist.

The lock surrendered with a rusty click.

I shouldered the door open and dragged my duffel inside, immediately hit by the smell of dust and my mother’s faint lavender perfume.

The house felt stifling and hot. Dust motes danced in the lone shafts of light cutting through the drawn curtains in the living room. Everything was covered in a thin film of dust.

I walked into the kitchen and grabbed a water bottle from the fridge. I had just cracked it open when the sound hit.

A motorcycle. The engine’s growl rattled the windows, filling my ears with an aggressive, unpleasant roar. I moved toward my window to see who was riding the bike. Through the glass, I saw him—black leather, dark hair whipping back, astride a large, shiny bike that looked like a Harley.

He slowed as he pulled to a stop at the house next door.

He killed the engine and pulled off his helmet in one fluid motion. Then I saw his face.

The bone structure, those piercing eyes.

My stomach dropped. It could only be one person. Calder Thorn.

I pressed my forehead against the window frame, eyes squeezed shut, trying to push down the surge of irritation flooding my veins.

I hadn’t thought about him in years. But muscle memory was a bitch, and suddenly I was nine years old again—pigtails and scraped knees, watching Calder Thorn toss my sketchbook into a mud puddle while his friends laughed. He’d held it over his head first, flipping through my drawings with that same cocky smirk, announcing to everyone that they sucked.

He’d probably forgotten all the bullying he did to me when I was a kid, but I haven’t forgotten the hate I have for him.

I opened my eyes, forcing my facial muscle to relax. I wasn’t that kid anymore. I didn’t cry over boys who got off on making me miserable.

A knock interrupted my thoughts.

I crossed the room and opened the door, and my breath slowed.

Rhys Thorn stood there, all broad shoulders and charming smile, holding a foil-wrapped casserole dish like he’d just stepped out of some hot next-door neighbor fantasy. He’d grown into a fine, muscular man; he still has his soft, gentle eyes that could calm you down with just a look.

“Maren.” His voice was warm and friendly. “Welcome back.”

“Rhys.” I blinked. “Hi.”

“I made lasagna. Way too much, as usual.” He held out the dish. “Thought you might be hungry.”

I took it from his hand s, the heat seeping through the foil into my palms. “That’s really sweet. Thank you.” He must have seen me when I arrived and decided to offer a surprise meal. What a kind, gentle man.

“No problem.” He rocked back on his heels, glancing past me into the house. “You settling in okay?”

“Yeah. Just got here.”

“Good.” He hesitated, like he wanted to say more. Rhys had always been the opposite of his twin—calm where Calder was chaos, thoughtful where Calder was reckless.

“So you’re next door now?” I asked.

“Yes, I am. My brother and I bought the place two years ago.”

At the mention of Calder, the hairs on my arms rose.

“Right,” I said carefully. “I saw him earlier. On the bike. It was so loud.”

Rhys’s face looked apologetic. “Yeah. That’s… Calder.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

Rhys laughed lightly. “If he bothers you—”

“He won’t,” I said quickly. “I can handle him.”

“I know you can.” Rhys’s smile softened. “But if you need anything, I’m right there. Just knock.”

“I will.”

He lingered another moment, and I wished desperately that he’d stay. But then the motorcycle roared back into earshot, and Rhys’s expression shifted.

Calder swung into the driveway next door, gravel spraying under his tires. He cut the engine and pulled off his helmet in one smooth motion, dark hair falling into his eyes.

He looked entirely different from Rhys—taller, with a bigger, more muscular build. Where Rhys was soft, gentle, and approachable, Calder’s face was strong and sharp; he wasn’t a person you could run to for help.

He smirked.

“Well, well.” Calder’s voice cut across the yard, cocky and amused. “Look who crawled back to town.”

My grip tightened on the casserole dish.

Rhys stepped slightly to the side. “Calder—”

“Relax, I’m just being friendly.” Calder sauntered over, hands in his jacket pockets, and stopped at the edge of the porch. His eyes dragged over me, slow and deliberate. “Maren Cole. Didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“Wish I could say the same,” I shot back.

His grin widened. “So how’s the work going? Your mum said you’re a very good landscape designer.”

“You talked to my mom?” So that’s how Rhys knew.

“She’s called. Mentioned you’d be doing some work here.” He leaned against the railing, resting his big frame on it. “Gonna be an interesting summer.”

“For you, maybe.”

“Oh, definitely for me.” His eyes gleamed with animosity. I shivered.

Rhys cleared his throat. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Probably.”

“Leave, Calder. No one wants you here.”

Calder laughed and pushed off the railing. “Fine. I’ll leave you two to your little reunion.” He shot me one last look—and turned away. “See you around, Cole.”

He walked back toward the guesthouse, and I realized I’d been clutching my hand.

Rhys sighed. “Sorry about him.”

“It’s fine.”

“You don’t have to pretend that you like him.” He gave me a small smile. “But don’t let him get to you.”

“Don’t worry, I can handle myself. Thanks for the lasagna.”

He nodded and headed back across the yard.

I stood there, casserole cooling in my hands, and watched him go.

Then, against my better judgment, my gaze slid to the guesthouse.

The lights were on. I could see his shadow moving behind the curtains—even without a clear view, I could see his muscular, toned body. Why did he have to be so… visible?

Look away, I told myself.

I didn’t, at least not for a good five minutes.

Later that night, after I’d unpacked and stress-eaten half the lasagna, I stood at my bedroom window, staring out at the guesthouse.

His light was still on. His shadow passed by the window again, and I hated that I noticed. He’d always been like this—taking up too much space, even in my head. How could I feel attraction for somebody that I hated? I probably will have to use my rose today. I need to clear away the tension from my brain.