Page 14 of Traded to the Alpha Wolf

He cocks his head and nods at the report. “You get through it?”

I let the pages curl in my fist. “I read it again. For what it’s worth, I still think your friends are wrong.” I make myself meet his eyes. “I know who my parents were. They weren’t shifters, and they weren’t anything special. I’m not some…missing link.”

Cade steps into the room, and I immediately feel the heat rising. The library seems to swallow sound, and I hold my breath as he approaches. He crosses his arms, leans against the nearest shelf, and regards me with that unreadable expression. “Parents were,” he says, “not ‘are.’ So, they’re gone?”

I nod, not trusting my voice yet. “Dead. Both of them. Years ago.” The words come out flat. I will myself to stop talking, but my mouth won’t listen. “I was eleven. After that, it was just me.”

Something shifts in Cade’s face, a tightening around the eyes. He uncrosses his arms. “I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s not bullshit, not pity. He says it like he means it, like it’s a loss that means something to him.

I shrug, but the gesture is mostly for myself. “It was a long time ago. People lose parents all the time. I’m not a child anymore.” I try to keep the rest of the story locked down: the warehouse, the hunters, and the fire, but it still flashes through my mind.

He’s quiet for a second, then says, “Family is everything, where I come from.” There’s a strange softness in his voice, a kind of ache. “Even if you’re not close. Even if you hate half of them, you’d still die for them. That’s what it means to be a pack.”

I make a face, half smile, half sneer. “Lucky for you.”

He shakes his head, comes closer, and sits on the arm of the chair across from me. His knees brush the edge of my ottoman, and I’m suddenly aware, in a visceral, skin-thin way, of how close he is. “Not luck,” he says. “It’s just how we’re built. Maybe you didn’t get the wolf, but you got the part that wants a place to belong. You wouldn’t be so pissed off if you didn’t have it.”

“I’m not pissed off,” I say quietly, but I’m not sure that’s true. The rage I feel, my pursuit of the hunters, the way I felt no remorse when I set the shifters on the last group up north to take their own revenge… Maybe I am pissed off. Maybe it’s justified.

Cade says nothing for a moment, and it’s clear he sees straight through me in a way I’m not sure anyone ever has before. I hate that. But as the moment drags on, I feel myself not wanting it to end.

Eventually, he clears his throat. “You want coffee?” His words are soft, but I know he’s not making a casual offer. I thinkit’s supposed to be some kind of truce or peace offering, or as close as he’d ever get to one.

I nod, and the moment is gone, replaced by the usual awkwardness that fills the air every time I realize I’m alone with him. I gather the pages and tuck them under my arm, following him out of the library and into the kitchen. The windows are bright, and his entire house is so shiny and clean, so meticulous, that I feel completely out of place. The luxury here is a far cry from my accommodation with the hunters.

He moves around the kitchen like he owns the world, and I guess in a way he does, at least in these mountains. Instead of the machine, he grinds the beans by hand this time, pours water into a glass carafe, and turns on the stove. I stand near the counter, pretending to do anything but watch his every movement. I’m so hyper-aware of him; it’s embarrassing, the way every movement draws my eye. He’s not even doing anything interesting; he’s just making coffee with deliberate, slow gestures, and I still can’t look away.

I hate that I’m so attracted to him. I hate that I can’t stop thinking about his hands, or his arms, or the way his eyes look when he’s angry, or the way he stands too close when he talks to me. He should be the last man I want to look at, but instead, he’s the only one I think I’ve ever really let myself notice.

He slides a mug across the counter. “They’ll be here in fifteen,” he says, meaning his betas, and that means I have fifteen minutes to figure out what the hell I’m going to do.

“They” means Grey, his second, and two or three of the others. They’re all huge shifters and seem to fill the entire house. He’s noticed that I like to hide in the library when they come, and for some reason, it matters to him that I’m not caught off-guard.

I say, “You always keep this place so tidy?” and immediately regret it, but Cade just shrugs and pours his own coffee.

“There’s something to be said for order,” he says, but he lets the word hang, like he’s thinking about the Order of Reclamation and not just the condition of his own kitchen. He leans back on the counter, arms folded, watching me over his mug.

I can’t meet his eyes, so I focus on the coffee instead, drinking it black even though I usually dump in at least four sugars. I feel like if I try to make small talk, I’ll scream, so I just sip, pretending I’m not vibrating out of my skin. Does he notice? Does he care?

I refill my coffee as the first truck pulls up, and Cade can’t keep the smirk from his face as I grab the cup and papers before escaping back toward the library. I don’t miss the way he pauses before getting the door, allowing for my escape.

In the library, I shut the door and lean against it. I clutch the coffee, but the papers slip from my hands. I didn’t even realize I was shaking until I stopped moving. I hear the main door open and the sound of men greeting each other; I hear Cade’s voice above all, and the sound does something to me I can’t explain. It should be fear, but it’s not.

All I know for certain is that I can’t stay here.

I’m not safe. From him, or myself, because I want him in a way that feels completely overwhelming.

Chapter 9 - Cade

The first thing I noticed was her scent increasing.

It’s not the regular enticing scent of a female; that kind of scent I can deal with, catalog, and dismiss. This is different. It’s sweet and hot, thick as honey, something that makes my head ache and my wolf pace under my skin. It hits me the second I open my bedroom door, so strong I almost bare my teeth at the empty hallway, as if it could force a shift there and then.

I stand there, blinking in the morning light that comes through the window, trying to gather my senses. But it’s everywhere now, clinging to the air, the walls, and my skin. I follow it down the hall, past the dead silence of the guest room. I peer in and find it empty and the bed stripped—she must have soaked through another set of bedding like she has every night recently with the temperature she’s running. At first, I thought she had some kind of human sickness, but now I’m not so sure. I check the kitchen and library next. The smell is almost overpowering now, and with it comes a physical heat that feels like walking into a greenhouse in the dead of winter.

She’s there, in the library, curled in the wingback by the window, knees drawn up to her chest, one bare foot wedged against the armrest. There’s a paperback open on her lap, but she’s not reading it; her eyes are fixed on the line of trees outside, so intensely that it takes her a second to notice me. When she does, she doesn’t startle, doesn’t flinch. She just looks at me, her face unreadable, and lets out a low, measured breath.

“You okay?” I ask because it’s the only thing I can think to say, and I have to force myself to sound casual despite feeling feral.