Claimed By The Four Alpha Demons

3. The Devil Wears Leather

Callie’s POV

“But you just got here.”

The voice didn’t just vibrate through the air, it vibrated through me. It was a low, velvet rumble that settled at the base of my spine, heavy and hot.

I spun around, clutching the feather duster like a sword, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

“Who’s there?” I demanded, though my voice came out breathless, lacking the authority I desperately needed. “I have pepper spray. And…and a very heavy duster.”

A chuckle echoed from the shadows near the spiral staircase. It was a dark, amused sound.

“Pepper spray,” the voice mused. “Spicy. I like spicy.”

The shadows in the corner seemed to thicken, swirling like smoke in a draft. Slowly, a figure detached itself from the gloom.

He didn’t walk, he prowled. Every movement was fluid, predatory, and silent. He stepped into the pool of amber light cast by a vintage reading lamp, and the air in the library suddenly felt too thin to breathe.

He was…devastating.

The man was tall, leaning against a bookshelf with a casual arrogance that screamed danger. He wore black leather pants that clung to powerful thighs and a silk shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, revealing pale skin and the hint of ink swirling over his collarbone.

His hair was dark, falling messily over his forehead, but it was his face that held me captive. High cheekbones, a sharp jawline, and a mouth curved into a lazy, sinful smirk.

But his eyes…

I blinked, sure I was seeing things. For a second, they looked pitch black, endless pools of obsidian. But as he tilted his head, they shifted, settling into a deep, piercing charcoal gray.

“You must be the brave soul braving the gloom,” he said, pushing off the shelf and taking a slow step toward me.

“I’m the new staff,” I corrected, backing up until my hips hit the heavy oak table behind me. “Callie. My name is Callie.”

“Callie,” he repeated, tasting the name. He rolled the syllables over his tongue like a fine wine. “Short for Calliope? The muse?”

“Just…just Callie.”

“A shame,” he murmured, taking another step. “I’ve always wanted a muse.”

My grip on the duster tightened until my knuckles turned white. He was too close. Way too close. Britta’s warning flashed in my mind in neon red letters: Do not look them in the eye. Do not engage.

I looked down at his boots, heavy, black combat boots that looked like they’d seen things. “I should…I should get back to work. Britta was very clear about my schedule.”

“Britta worries too much,” he said dismissively.

He was standing right in front of me now. I could feel the heat radiating off him. It wasn’t normal body heat, but a furnace-like intensity that seemed to sear through my thermal top.

He smelled incredible. Like expensive bourbon, woodsmoke, and something darker…like the air before a lightning strike.

“You’re shaking,” he noted softly.

“I’m cold,” I lied. “It’s drafty in here.”

“Liar.”

He reached out, and I flinched, squeezing my eyes shut. I expected a blow, or maybe for him to grab me.

Instead, I felt a knuckle graze my cheek, and my eyes snapped open.

He was leaning down, his face inches from mine. He wasn’t looking at me with anger. He was looking at me with a terrifying, focused intensity, his nostrils flaring slightly as he inhaled the air around me.

“You don’t smell cold,” he whispered, his voice dropping to a rough growl. “You smell…electric.”

He leaned closer, his nose brushing the sensitive skin below my ear, and I froze.

My entire body went rigid. I should push him away. I should run. But I was paralyzed. Not by fear, but by a sudden, overwhelming jolt of awareness.

That static I’d felt since arriving at the manor? It wasn’t just in the walls. It was in him. And now that he was touching me, it felt like a circuit had been completed. A low hum started in my chest, answering the thrumming energy rolling off him.

“What are you doing?” I squeaked, my voice betraying me.

“Investigating,” he mumbled against my neck. He inhaled deeply, a long, slow drag of air that made my knees weak. “God, what is that?”

“Soap?” I offered weakly. “It’s lavender.”

He chuckled against my skin, the vibration sending shivers down my arms. “It’s not soap, sweetheart. It’s…pure chaos.”

He pulled back slowly, but he didn’t step away. He planted his hands on the table on either side of me, trapping me in a cage of his own body, as he loomed over me, blocking out the light, consuming my field of vision.

“I’m Ace,” he said, his charcoal eyes boring into mine. “But you probably already knew that.”

“I’ve heard the rumors,” I admitted without thinking, then immediately wanted to bite my tongue.

“Did you now?” One dark brow arched.

“People say the men of this house are…different. That you’re dangerous.” The words escaped me before I could stop them.

God, what am I saying?

Ace threw his head back and laughed. It was a rich, jagged sound that bounced off the high ceilings. “We can be, Callie. Especially when things don’t belong are where they should. Tell me…did they also say what we do to the things we catch?”

I swallowed hard, trying to keep the words in, but it was as if my mouth had a mind of its own. “They said you’re a force of nature.”

He lowered his head again, his lips hovering dangerously close to mine. “I am. And I’m not afraid to let it rain.”

My breath hitched. The air between us was thick, heavy with unsaid things and a tension that felt like a physical weight. The lamps in the library flickered, and a stack of papers on the desk ruffled as if caught in a breeze, though the windows were closed.

Ace’s eyes flicked to the flickering lamp, then back to me. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face.

“Interesting,” he murmured. “Very interesting.”

He lifted a hand and tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers were rough, calloused, but his touch was surprisingly gentle, and as his skin grazed mine, a spark, blue and visible, snapped between us.

I jumped. “Static.”

“Is it?” he asked, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. “It feels like a greeting.”

“I really need to dust,” I said, desperation creeping into my voice. This was too much. He was too much. I felt like a moth fluttering around a bonfire, oblivious to the fact that my wings were already smoking.

Ace stared at me for a long moment, his gaze dropping to my mouth, then back up to my eyes. He looked…conflicted. Like he wanted to devour me but was restraining himself by a thread.

“Fine,” he said abruptly, pushing himself off the table. The loss of his heat was instant and jarring. I almost shivered.

“Dust,” he commanded, though his voice lacked the bite it had before. He walked toward the spiral staircase, his movements lazy and fluid.

He paused at the bottom step, looking back at me over his shoulder. The shadows seemed to cling to him, wrapping around his legs like affectionate pets.

“But Callie?”

“Yes?” I breathed, still pressing myself against the table for support.

“Stay out of the West Wing,” he said. “Britta told you the rules, right?”

“Yes. No West Wing.”

“Good.” His eyes darkened, the charcoal bleeding back into black for just a second. “Because if I find you in my room…I won’t be as polite as I was just now.”

“You call this polite?” I asked, a spark of defiance breaking through my fear.

Ace grinned, and it was the devil’s own smile. Sharp, wicked, and promising unimaginable trouble.

“Sweetheart,” he drawled, “this is me on my best behavior. You don’t want to see me when I’m rude.”

With that, he turned and ascended the stairs, disappearing into the shadows of the mezzanine.

I stood there for a full minute, forgetting to breathe.

My heart was racing so fast I thought it might explode. My skin tingled where he had touched me, a phantom heat that wouldn’t fade.

I looked down at my hand. It was shaking.

“Okay,” I whispered to the empty room. “Okay. That happened.”

I grabbed the duster and attacked a row of encyclopedias with aggressive fervor, trying to scrub the memory of his scent out of my nose. Bourbon and woodsmoke. And that underlying smell of…ozone.

He smelled like me. Or rather, he smelled like the static that followed me around.

Why did he smell like that? And why, when he was leaning over me, looking at me like I was a snack he was saving for later, did I not want to run away?

Why did a part of me, a deep, irrational, reckless part, want to lean closer?

He’s dangerous, my brain screamed. He’s a powerful man with boundary issues and scary eyes.

He’s ours, a quiet voice in my gut whispered.

I froze, duster mid-air.

“Stop it,” I hissed at myself. “He is not ours. He’s the employer. I’m the staff. We are dusting. That’s all.”

But as I worked, I couldn’t stop glancing up at the mezzanine. The shadows up there seemed darker now, swirling in a way that wasn’t natural.

And I could have sworn, over the sound of my own erratic breathing, I heard the faint, distinct sound of a purr.