The Alpha's Witch

CHAPTER 2

Slowly turning around, my heart hammering against my ribs, I face the werewolf who dared to make me eat my words. The lime's tartness still lingers on my tongue as I come face-to-face with him, and suddenly, breathing becomes a conscious effort. I am awe-struck by the man standing a few feet away, his presence commanding the space between us like gravity.

His beautiful hazel eyes—flecked with gold and amber that catch the low light—take in every inch of my body with an intensity that makes my skin flush hot and cold at once. A muscle ticks in his sharp jawline, and I notice the slight tremble in his hand, like he's fighting to maintain control. The mate bond affects werewolves immediately and intensely—I've seen it happen to others, but never imagined being on the receiving end of that look.

I'm suddenly, absurdly grateful I picked one of my finest dresses tonight. The long v-neckline reveals my perfect porcelain shoulder blades as the bridge of my bosoms stands out because of the thin sash cinching my waist. The dress had felt like armor when I arrived—now it feels like something else entirely under his gaze.

His suit is perfectly tailored and hugs his broad shoulders and narrow waist, the black fabric a stark contrast to the crisp white shirt underneath, but it does little to hide how powerfully built he is. The top button of his shirt is undone, revealing a glimpse of tanned skin and the hint of a tattoo peeking out. I wonder absently what it might be.

He takes slow, deliberate strides toward me, each step filling the gap between us with crackling tension. The crowd around us seems to fade away, conversations dimming to white noise. I suck in a breath as his scent fills my nostrils—pine and leather and something wild and untamed, like a forest after rain. He smells amazing, intoxicating in a way that makes the tequila seem weak by comparison.

Without warning, he gently snakes his arm around my waist, his touch sending electricity down my spine. His palm spans almost the entire small of my back, filling me with warmth as he buries his nose in the nape of my neck and inhales deeply, taking in my scent. My pulse quickens, thundering in my ears.

"Mine," he growls against my skin, his voice a deep rumble that causes goosebumps to race across my flesh. His raven-black hair, slightly tousled as if he's been running his hands through it, tickles my cheek, causing a shiver to run down my spine that settles low in my belly. A sudden, overwhelming urge to run my hands through that hair fills me, to feel if it's as soft as it looks, but I force my hand to remain at my side, fingers curling into my palm. What's wrong with me? Why would I want to touch a stranger this way?

But he's not a stranger, is he? a voice whispers in my mind. He's your mate.

He takes his head away from my neck, leaving the skin there tingling and hypersensitive, and moves his hand to my mouth. With a gentleness that contrasts with the raw power I can feel in his frame, he pulls the forgotten lime from between my lips. My mouth hangs open, staring at him wide-eyed, unable to process what's happening. His eyes are glowing now—a mesmerizing amber-gold that consumes the hazel—the telltale sign that his wolf is in control. I must really be this handsome werewolf's mate. I can't believe it. It has never happened before, or if it has, I haven't heard of it in all my years among werewolves.

The implications race through my mind—a witch mated to a werewolf. It's unheard of, impossible. The political ramifications alone would be enormous, not to mention what it would mean for me. For us. For all the preconceived notions I've held about werewolves and witches.

I pull away from my racing thoughts as he tilts my chin with a single finger, closing my gaping mouth. His touch is surprisingly tender, at odds with the possessive growl from moments before. I step back instinctively, feeling a little overwhelmed with everything—the noise of the party, the stares we're undoubtedly receiving, the impossible reality of what's happening—but he doesn't let me retreat. His arm tightens slightly, pulling me closer to him until I can feel the solid wall of his chest against mine. Heat floods my body, spreading from every point of contact between us and pooling low in my center, igniting a desire I've never experienced. My eyes widen in surprise. My body has never responded like this before to anyone's touch, not in all my years.

He drops his hand from my waist, the absence of his touch almost painful, and grabs my hand instead. His fingers intertwine with mine naturally, as if they've done this a thousand times before. He pulls me with him as he begins to walk away from the bar, the crowd parting before him like he's Moses and they're the Red Sea. But I don't move, planting my heels firmly on the marble floor. Mate or not, I don't even know his name. The witch in me—the survivor—is still wary. For all I know, this could be an elaborate ruse, and he could be trying to take me somewhere to kill me.

The thought seems absurd even as it crosses my mind, but years of caution don't disappear in an instant, mate bond or no.

"Who are you?" I ask, my voice steadier than I expected as he turns back to face me. A flash of something—surprise, respect, maybe even admiration—crosses his features before his expression softens. He moves his hand into my hair, his fingers threading through the red strands with a reverence that makes my breath catch. His thumb brushes my cheek lightly in the process, the calloused pad rough against my skin, causing me to take a sharp intake of breath.

He tilts my head gently but firmly, making my eyes meet his glowing ones. I notice flecks of green I hadn't seen before, hidden in the gold and amber.

He whispers against my face, his warm, minty breath fanning across my skin, making my lips tingle with anticipation. "I will never hurt you, mate," he says, his voice a soothing rumble that I feel more than hear, staring with such intensity into my eyes that I can almost believe he sees into my soul. Something in me knows he's speaking a fundamental truth—the mate bond won't allow him to harm me, even if he wanted to.

Looking into his wolf eyes, something breaks and mends inside me simultaneously. I can tell he means every word. There's a sincerity there, a promise that goes beyond the mate bond, something uniquely his. He grabs my hand again, his grip firm but not constraining, and this time, I follow him without resistance, letting him guide me through the crowd of stunned onlookers.

I don't know where we're going or what happens next, but for the first time in a very long time, I'm not afraid of the unknown. I'm curious—and maybe, just maybe, a little hopeful.