The Alpha Behind The Mask-Chapter 18: In My Bed

​Aurora’s POV

​The morning sun poked through the thin, dusty curtains of the apartment, stinging my eyes. I groaned, my head feeling like it had been used as a drum in a war march. My mouth was dry, tasting of alcohol, and my body felt unusually heavy.

​Then, I realized why.

​I wasn’t just lying on my bed. I was lying on something warm, hard, and breathing. Before I could even open my eyes, my hand moved on its own. I felt something thick under the blanket. My fingers closed around it.

I was still half asleep, so I thought I was dreaming. I moved my hand slowly without thinking.

Suddenly, I heard a sharp breath right above me. Then a deep groan that made the bed shake.

​"Aurora," a voice rasped. It wasn’t the voice of a dream. It was deep, commanding, and authoritative.

​My eyes snapped open.

​My cheek was pressed against a firm, muscular chest. I followed the line of my own arm down... and realized my hand was firmly wrapped around a man’s cock.

​I froze, my heart stopping as I slowly tilted my head back. Towering over me, leaning against my own cheap pillow, was Oliver. He was wide awake, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped in his cheek. His sea-blue eyes weren’t icy anymore; they were glowing with a dark, primal heat.

​"If you don’t let go in the next three seconds," he gritted out, his voice a low, warning rumble, "this morning is going to take a very different turn. And I don’t think your ’human’ body is ready for what my wolf wants to do to you."

​I yanked my hand back as if I’d been burned, scrambling backward and nearly falling off the edge of the tiny bed. I clutched the thin blanket to my chest, my face burning with a heat that rivaled the sun.

​"Your Majesty! I... I’m so sorry! I was asleep! I didn’t—"

​"Good morning, Aurora," he interrupted, his voice still thick with the huskiness of arousal. He adjusted himself with a frustrated exhale. "I trust the two bottles of Lunar Absinthe were worth the agony you’re clearly in—and the... liberties you just took."

​I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole. "I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry."

​My stomach dropped as the memories came back in jagged flashes: me poking his chest, calling him a "big bad wolf," telling him about the man who killed my parents, and asking him not to leave.

​"I... I’m so sorry," I whispered, looking at my lap. "I shouldn’t have... I didn’t mean to burden you."

​"You mentioned the man who killed your parents," he interrupted, his tone shifting to something more professional and serious. He sat up, the small bed creaking under his weight. "You told me he was coming back for you. Why haven’t you filed a report with the pack police? Why is this the first I’m hearing of an assassination on my lands?"

​I looked at him, realizing that even in my messy, hungover state, he was already working. He was the king again. But then I remembered the warmth of his arms around me during the night, and how he hadn’t left when I asked him to.

​"Because the man who did it... I don’t know him."

​Oliver stood up, his massive frame making my tiny room feel like a cage. He walked over to my cracked mirror, adjusting his collar. "We’ll discuss this at the office. You have thirty minutes to get ready. My car is downstairs."

​He paused at the door, his hand on the handle. He didn’t turn around, but his voice was low. "And Aurora? Drink some water. You look like hell. And stop daydreaming about what’s in my trousers; you can’t handle me," he mocked.

​My frown deepened. What makes him think I couldn’t handle him? Is that how little he thinks of me?

​As soon as the door clicked shut, I sat there for a full minute, my face buried in my hands. The silence of the room was heavy with the lingering scent of him. I couldn’t believe it. The Alpha King—the most powerful man in the werewolf kingdom, a man who lived in a literal palace—had spent the night on my lumpy mattress. And to make matters worse, I had practically assaulted him in my sleep.

​"You can’t handle me," I mimicked in a low, bitter whisper, mocking his tone. My frown deepened. Who did he think he was? Just because I hadn’t had any sexual experience yet didn’t mean I was made of glass.

​But I didn’t have time to dwell on my indignation. I had thirty minutes. My head throbbed with every movement as I scrambled to my feet, nearly tripping over my own heels from last night. I rushed to my closet, heart sinking. What do you wear to work the day after you’ve felt up your boss? I pulled out a simple cream blouse and a high-waisted black skirt, my hands shaking so much I could barely button them.

​I stopped in front of the cracked mirror, the realization finally hitting me with full force. Oliver had seen me at my absolute worst—drunk, crying about my past, and then... that. I splashed cold water on my face, trying to wash away the shame, but the memory of that heat in my palm refused to fade.

​I took a deep breath, grabbed my bag, and headed downstairs.

​The sleek car was idling at the curb. I pulled the door open and slid inside. Oliver was already there, looking impossibly calm and devastatingly handsome in a fresh suit. How did he manage to look like a god after sleeping on a twin bed?

​"Good morning," I murmured, staring straight ahead at the back of the driver’s head.

​He didn’t say a word, just tapped something on his tablet. The car began to move, navigating through the morning traffic until we pulled up in front of a small, high-end coffee shop. I watched as the driver got out and disappeared inside. I stayed silent, my hands folded in my lap, trying to ignore the magnetic pull of the man sitting just inches away from me.

​A few minutes later, the driver returned, holding a steaming cup that smelled of rich beans and vanilla. He reached back to hand it to Oliver, but the king didn’t take it.

​"It’s for her," Oliver said smoothly, his gaze never leaving his screen.

​I froze, stunned. I looked at the cup, then at him. "Your Majesty? I didn’t ask for—"

​"You have a headache, you’re dehydrated, and you’re currently vibrating with enough nervous energy to power the pack house," he interrupted, his voice cold but not unkind. "Drink the coffee, Aurora. I need my assistant sharp, not reeling from a hangover."

​I took the cup, the warmth of the sleeve seeping into my cold fingers. "Thank you," I whispered.

​"Don’t thank me," he rumbled as the car pulled away. "I’m not doing you any favors. It’s an investment in your productivity."

​His words were cold, but I didn’t miss the way his eyes flickered toward me as I took the first sip. The coffee was perfect—exactly the right amount of sweetness to cut through the bitterness of my hangover.

​The rest of the ride was a tense, heavy silence. When we arrived at the Pack House, the atmosphere had shifted. It wasn’t just another workday. As we stepped out of the car, I noticed several high-ranking warriors lingering in the foyer, their eyes following us with curious intensity. They had clearly heard about the king’s dramatic exit with his assistant last night.

​Then suddenly, right before us, Cassey appeared, her arms folded across her chest.

​