POV: Samantha
My breath catches in my throat, and I freeze.
A wave of heat rolls down my spine, then back up again, settling as a lump in my throat. My heart pounds so hard in my chest it echoes in my ears. My fingers begin to tremble, slick with sweat, and my mouth—already dry—feels like it's filled with cotton.
And no, before you assume, it's not from fear.
It's something else entirely.
Because the man standing in the doorway is—without exaggeration—the most breathtakingly gorgeous human being I have ever seen. Or maybe he's not even human. Because no mortal man should look like that. Tall, broad, sculpted like a fallen god. His biceps strain against the sleeves of his black shirt, the fabric stretching slightly over his powerful shoulders. His dark hair is tousled, wild, as if he's been running his hands through it for hours.
God help me, I imagine running my fingers through it myself—me, straddling him, his hands gripping my thighs while I...
I bite down hard on my bottom lip, physically shaking the image out of my head.
A muscle in his jaw jumps, and I can practically see the tension building in him. He's grinding his teeth. His chest rises and falls slowly, almost too slowly, like he's holding himself back from something. His eyes don't leave me. There's a glint in them that's difficult to decipher—fury, hunger, confusion... all three?
It's as if he's fighting a war against himself.
And for reasons I can't understand, that makes me lift my chin slightly. Straighten my spine. Meet his gaze head-on.
Sure, he's painfully attractive. He may even be dangerous. But I'll be damned if I let myself get steamrolled by some emotionally constipated man with anger issues just because he's built like a Greek statue.
If he doesn't want me here, fine. He can say it. Or better yet—he can leave. I'm not going anywhere until I've had my breakfast.
His arms drop to his sides in an exaggerated motion, as if he's reached the end of his patience. He scrubs a hand through his dark hair—again—and the small moan that wants to escape my throat is barely contained. My eyes flutter shut, if only to shut down the firestorm of erotic images flickering behind them.
Control yourself, Sam.
He strides across the room in a few long, purposeful steps and sinks into the chair at the head of the long wooden table. I'm sitting to his left. His proximity is overwhelming—his scent, something wild and clean, like pine and smoke and rain, drifts toward me.
It's intoxicating.
I don't dare breathe too deeply, afraid it might undo me entirely.
Moments later, Jeffrey, the silver-haired gentleman from earlier, enters the room carrying a tray with two steaming plates of food. The scent hits me first—scrambled eggs, toast, something slightly herbed and buttery—and my stomach groans loudly, shamelessly, as he sets my plate down.
Thank God.
I dig in without a second's hesitation. Screw table manners. I haven't eaten since yesterday afternoon, and stress burns calories, right?
I close my eyes as I take the first bite, letting out an involuntary moan of satisfaction. It's absurdly delicious. The eggs are light and fluffy, the seasoning perfect. My second bite is even larger, and I'm halfway through chewing when I hear it.
A low, guttural growl.
My eyes snap open.
I glance sideways. He's still sitting beside me, plate untouched, fists clenched tightly on the table. His jaw is locked, his eyes closed.
Did... did that growl come from him?
No. That's ridiculous. Probably the dog from last night. I really need to ask Jeffrey about that. There are wild animals around here, and considering my luck lately, it'd be just like the universe to throw a bear into the mix.
I swallow and reach for my water. Take a sip. Clear my throat. And then—because the tension in the room is thicker than molasses—I decide to do what I always do when I'm uncomfortable.
Talk.
"Good morning!" I chirp with exaggerated cheer, turning toward him and holding out my hand.
Because why not? I'm not the one sitting there looking like I want to murder the furniture.
His eyes open slowly. He stares down at his plate for a moment, then lifts his gaze toward me. Our eyes meet—and something zings through my chest like lightning. A spark that races down to my fingertips and back again.
"Good morning," he replies, his voice a deep, resonant baritone that practically vibrates through my bones.
Goosebumps erupt across my skin.
I blink, stunned by the physical reaction my body seems to be having—without my permission. I feel flushed. Breathless. And weirdly... raw. Like he's peeled back layers of armor I didn't even know I had.
I glance down, hoping the flush in my cheeks isn't too obvious.
When I look up again, he's staring directly into my eyes. His irises are a strange, vibrant green, as if lit from within. And beneath the intensity, I catch a flash of something unmistakable.
Lust.
Hot. Undeniable. And directed straight at me.
Oh no. No, no, no.
He's barely holding himself together—and I'm not doing much better. My body is burning up, my thoughts are swirling into very NSFW territory, and this is exactly the kind of dangerous energy I don't need in my life.
I need air. Now.
I push my chair back abruptly and rise to my feet. But before I can take a step, his hand closes around my wrist.
Sparks shoot up my arm, so powerful it nearly knocks the breath from my lungs. I shudder. Goosebumps rise again.
"Don't leave," he says quietly, his voice rough like gravel. "Please. Finish your breakfast."
My knees buckle slightly. I blink down at him. My heart is pounding, and I feel dizzy—off-kilter, like gravity just stopped working the way it used to.
I nod wordlessly and sit back down.
He finally begins eating his own food, methodically and silently. I try to focus on mine, but my appetite is quickly dissolving into the background. All I can think about is him—his nearness, the way his scent clings to the air, the heat that radiates off his body like a furnace.
By the time I'm done eating, I feel no more composed than when we started. If anything, it's worse. I'm sweating, flustered, and desperately trying not to let my hormones turn me into a blubbering mess.
The old man reappears just as I push my plate away. He gives me a polite smile.
"Is there anything else I can get you, miss?" he asks, friendly and professional as ever.
"No, thank you. That was delicious," I say, forcing a smile. Then it hits me—I never officially checked in. I don't even know his full name.
"Sorry, um…" I begin, hesitating.
"You may call me Jeffrey, miss," he says warmly, and I relax a little.
"Thanks, Jeffrey. I meant to ask, where do I sign in? I'd like to get on the road before lunch."
Behind me, I hear a deep, low growl. I turn, startled, and see the man—still seated—his jaw clenched once again.
Jeffrey doesn't seem fazed. "You'll have to speak with the Alpha about that, miss."
I blink at him. "The... Alpha?"
As in werewolves? That kind of Alpha?
Before I can ask again, the man at the table speaks.
"I am the Alpha."
The room seems to shrink.
His voice is ice and fire and earth and thunder all at once. His eyes blaze—literally glow bright green—and his hands are balled into tight fists again.
"Oh," I manage to say, swallowing thickly.
He pushes back from the table so hard that his chair tips over behind him. He storms out without another word, and the front door slams shut seconds later.
Jeffrey appears at my side again, completely unfazed.
"Don't mind him, miss," he says with a small smile. "He'll be back by lunch."
I gape at him. "I can't wait that long. I need to get home. I have work tomorrow."
He shrugs. Or maybe he doesn't. It's so slight I'm not sure I saw it correctly.
"I'm sorry, miss. But the Alpha is the only one who can authorize your departure."
I stare at him, incredulous. "Wait—you're saying I need permission to leave?"
"I'm afraid so."
"So I'm a prisoner?"
Jeffrey pales slightly and takes a small step back. Good. I've always had that effect when I get serious. People rarely see me angry, but when they do, they usually regret it.
My jaw clenches. This is ridiculous. I feel like I've stepped into one of those supernatural romance novels where the innocent heroine is trapped in a mysterious castle by a brooding alpha male with secrets and too many abs.
I push my chair back, grab my things, and head upstairs with a determined stride. My mind races as I throw everything haphazardly into my suitcase. Toothbrush. Jeans. Bra. I don't care how weird this place is or how hot the guy is.
I'm leaving.
I bolt down the stairs, across the massive foyer, and out the front door. The sunlight hits me, fresh and sharp, and I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
My car is exactly where I left it. Thank God.
I walk briskly—no running, I have my pride—and toss my suitcase in the trunk with more force than necessary. I slam it closed and slide into the driver's seat. Door shut. Engine on.
Then—
A loud slap lands on the hood of my car.
I jolt, my hands tightening on the steering wheel.
He's back.
Leaning over the hood, bracing himself with both hands, shirtless, muscles gleaming in the sun like he just stepped out of a fantasy. His hair is wild, eyes burning with something that looks suspiciously like rage. Or maybe hunger.
Or both.
He doesn't move.
He just stares at me, daring me. His entire posture screams, "Try me."
And God help me—I do love a good challenge.
I grin. Wide. Reckless.
He clearly wasn't expecting that.
I throw the car into reverse and slam the pedal. The tires spin, dirt kicking up in every direction as I shoot backward and spin around in a wide arc. Then I throw it into first gear and slam the gas.
The gates are just ahead.
If they don't open?
I'll run them over.
Because I'm done playing nice.
Pleasantries are over.