The Alpha Behind The Mask-Chapter 17: Her Apartment

Oliver’s POV

​I frowned, my patience thinning as the ballroom whispers grew louder. Without a word, I swooped down and swept her off her feet, carrying her bridal-style. She didn’t fight me. Instead, she giggled and wrapped her arms around my neck, her warm, alcohol-laced breath brushing my jaw and setting my nerves on edge.

"You’re strong," she murmured drunkenly, her lips brushing dangerously close to my ear. "Like a real wolf..."

My grip tightened slightly beneath her knees. She was light in my arms—too light. Fragile in a way that stirred something protective and possessive inside me at the same time.

​I walked her out of the gala, my jaw set tight. Every Alpha in that room was watching the King carry away a drunken "assistant," but I didn’t care. Let them talk.

​Once we reached the car, the driver scrambled to open the door. I slid into the backseat, still holding her, before settling her beside me. She didn’t move away. Instead, she let her head fall onto my shoulder, her vibrant red hair spilling over my black tuxedo. I flinched—no one touched me like this—but as her weight settled, I found myself allowing it.

​"Take us to her apartment," I ordered the driver.

​The ride was quiet, save for her soft, drunken whispers. She was mumbling about the stars and how the "big bad wolf" wasn’t so scary up close. I stared out the window, my hand hovering near her shoulder, fighting the urge to pull her closer.

​When we reached her building, I carried her up the stairs. It was a run-down place, nothing like the luxury of the packhouse. I fished her keys out of her purse, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

​My heart constricted as I looked around. The apartment was tiny—just the bare necessities. A small bed, a cracked mirror, a few worn books. It was the home of someone who had been surviving, not living. Right there, looking at the peeling wallpaper, I felt a sudden, fierce craving to give her the world. To wrap her in silk and gold and keep her safe from the poverty she’d been forced into.

​I laid her flat on the bed and turned to leave, but her hand shot out, grabbing my wrist with surprising strength.

​"Don’t go," she whispered, her eyes fluttering open. The mischief was gone, replaced by a raw, naked terror. "I’m scared... he’ll come for me."

​I paused, kneeling beside the bed. "Who, Aurora? You’re safe here."

​"The man..." she breathed, her voice trembling. "The man who killed my parents. He’ll be back. He’ll be back to kill me."

​My heart sank. It was obvious now—her parents hadn’t just died; they had been assassinated. The trauma she carried wasn’t just grief; it was a memory haunting her. I wanted to say "no" coldly, to tell her I wasn’t a babysitter and walk away. But I couldn’t. Not when she was looking at me like I was the only person whom she could trust.

​"Fine," I grunted.

It the quickest Yes of my life.

​I kicked off my shoes and climbed onto the small bed. It was barely big enough for me, my large frame taking up nearly all the space. I sent a quick mind-link to my driver: Go back to the packhouse. I’m staying here tonight.

Aurora didn’t hesitate. She crawled toward me, tucking herself into my side and resting her head on my chest. I could feel the heat of her body through my shirt.

​"You smell so good, Alpha King," she whispered into my chest, her voice trailing off as sleep finally began to take her. "Has anyone... told you that?"

​I looked down at the top of her head, my hand finally coming up to rest on her waist. "No, Aurora," I murmured into the quiet room. "No one ever has."

​"Tell me more about yourself," she whispered, her voice soft and hazy.

​I stiffened. I didn’t do "sharing." My life was a series of strategic moves, cold mandates, and secrets buried under layers of iron and blood. But she was pressing against me, her small hand clutching the fabric of my shirt as if it were a lifeline. She was drunk. By tomorrow morning, she wouldn’t remember a single word I uttered.

​I looked up at the water-stained ceiling, my voice a low rumble that vibrated through my chest and into her.

​"There isn’t much to tell, Aurora," I began, though the words felt heavy. "I grew up in a house that was more of a battlefield than a home. My brothers and I... we weren’t a family. Three sons, three different fathers, and a mother who saw us as pawns for her game."

​I felt her hand tighten slightly on my chest, a silent nudge for me to keep going.

​"I learned young that the only thing I could rely on was my wolf. And even he is a beast that needs control." I continued, my voice growing darker. "I spent my youth proving I was the strongest, the most ruthless. I had to be, or Clinton would have buried me long ago."

​I paused, a bitter smile touching my lips.

​"I don’t have friends. I have subjects. I don’t have lovers; I have contracts. My life is a fortress, Aurora. And most days, I prefer it that way. It’s quieter when you’re alone at the top."

​I looked down and realized her breathing had finally evened out. She was fast asleep, tucked into the crook of my arm, her face peaceful for the first time since I’d met her. She hadn’t heard the half of it, but telling her—even while she was unconscious—felt like a pressure valve had been released in my chest.

​I shifted slightly, pulling the thin, worn blanket over both of us. My wolf, usually a roaring engine of aggression, was oddly quiet, curled up in the back of my mind as if he were guarding her dreams.

​"What are you doing to me, Aurora?" I whispered, my lips brushing the top of her hair. "Why do you feel like a weakness... and a necessity at the same time?"

I swallowed hard. "What is it about you?"

​Knowing I wouldn’t get an answer, I closed my eyes, the scent of wildflowers and absinthe pulling me into a sleep I hadn’t known I needed.

​