Chapter 3 – The Alpha Who Can’t Stay Away
1032 Words
Sleep comes in pieces.
Every time I drift under, something jolts me back—a sharp echo of Damien’s voice, the ripping pain of the bond breaking, the way the room spun as he rejected me.
By the time dawn softens through the infirmary blinds, my eyes burn and my body aches like I’ve been hollowed out and stitched together wrong.
Mila is sprawled across the second chair, her hair a tangled halo, her breathing soft and even. She stayed the whole night. I don’t know what I did to deserve her kindness.
I’m staring at the ceiling, forcing slow breaths into my lungs, when I feel it.
A ripple.
A shift.
My wolf lifts her head inside me, ears tilted forward, alert.
He’s here, she whispers.
My heart thuds once, loud enough I hear it.
I sit up too quickly, the world tilting for a second. As the dizziness fades, I feel him even before the door creaks open—like his presence presses against the air, reshaping it, heavy and magnetic.
Damien stands in the doorway.
For a moment, he says nothing.
He just… looks at me.
And the look is nothing like the cold mask he wore last night. His eyes roam over me like he’s checking for injuries—throat, wrists, cheekbones, legs—slow, careful, almost reverent. His hands flex at his sides like he’s restraining himself from reaching out.
He’s wearing a black Henley and dark jeans. His hair is damp, curling slightly over his forehead, like he ran water through it in frustration or exhaustion.
Or both.
“Lila.” His voice is low, raw like gravel. “You should still be lying down.”
I swallow the lump rising in my throat. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” Something dark flickers in his eyes. “You weren’t breathing when you passed out.”
The memory slices through me. “And whose fault was that?”
His jaw tics. Hard.
Mila groans softly in her sleep, rolling to her side. Damien’s eyes flick to her, then back to me—an unreadable expression tightening his features, as if he doesn’t like the idea of someone else being so close to me.
He steps inside.
My pulse stumbles.
He’s too controlled. Too quiet. When Damien Blackthorne is quiet, it means he’s a breath away from losing it.
“How long have you been standing outside the door?” I ask, softer than I mean to.
His silence answers for him.
A long moment stretches between us. The room feels too small. Too warm. My wolf shifts anxiously, pressing forward, drawn to him despite everything.
“Why did you come back?” The question spills out of me. “You already made yourself clear last night.”
He flinches.
The muscles in his shoulders tighten, his hands curling into fists again. “I came because…” He stops, breathing out through his nose. “I shouldn’t have said it like that.”
“Rejected me?” My laugh is sharp, ugly. “Which part would you like to rephrase? The public humiliation or the emotional evisceration?”
His face twists—pained, furious, self-loathing. “Lila, stop.”
“I will not stop. You don’t get to reject me and then—”
He moves.
One step.
Two.
Suddenly he’s close enough that I can see the faint stubble on his jaw, the shadows under his eyes, the tension in every line of his body.
“Do you think this is easy for me?” he says quietly, voice trembling at the edges. “Do you think I wanted any of this?”
I laugh again, but this time it cracks. “It seemed pretty effortless.”
He curses softly, running a hand over his face. “You have no idea what I’m fighting.”
“Then stop fighting it!”
His eyes snap to mine.
There it is—something bright and dangerous, buried recklessly close to the surface. His wolf. His hunger. His regret.
The air between us thickens until breathing feels optional.
“I can’t,” he whispers. “I can’t touch you. I can’t want you. I can’t have you.”
“Why?” My voice breaks. “Damien, just tell me why.”
He leans closer—so close I can feel his breath on my cheek, warm and uneven.
His lips part.
For a single heartbeat, I think he might actually tell me the truth.
Or kiss me.
The thought sends a tremor through my body.
His eyes drop to my mouth.
My heart stutters.
His hand lifts as if to touch my jaw.
And then—
He jerks back like he’s been burned, chest rising sharply.
“No.”
The word sounds strangled. Desperate. Not firm—frightened.
He turns sharply, bracing both hands on the wall near the window, head bowed, shoulders tight.
The morning light spills over him, outlining the curves and tension of his back, the way his muscles strain like he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will.
“Get better,” he says finally, voice cold again, though it trembles. “Then go home.”
My breath catches. “You’re… sending me away?”
He doesn’t turn. “It’s for the best.”
“For you,” I whisper.
The silence is answer enough.
He walks to the door. His hand hesitates on the handle for the briefest second—as if he’s forcing himself to leave against every instinct he has.
And then he’s gone.
Again.
The door clicks shut.
But unlike last night, something lingers in the air.
Heat. Frustration. Regret.
A kind of electricity that feels too alive, too wild, too confused to fit neatly into any emotion.
My wolf lifts her head inside me, tail swishing slowly.
He wants us, she whispers. He wants us so much it’s killing him.
I press my trembling fingers to my lips, my heart pounding unevenly.
If that’s true…
If wanting me terrifies him…
Then what in the Moon’s name is he hiding?
And why does it feel like this is only the beginning of something dangerous—for both of us?
- Writer
