The Alpha Behind The Mask-Chapter 29: Closed Up

Aurora’s POV

​"I don’t need your money," I snapped. "I am not a charity case, and I certainly don’t want your help, Alpha Oliver."

​The silence that followed was suffocating. I didn’t wait for his reaction. I turned on my heel and walked out of the hospital wing, my heart hammering against my ribs. I could hear his heavy, rhythmic footsteps behind me.

​"Aurora, stop," he commanded.

​I didn’t. I pushed through the glass sliding doors into the humid afternoon air, waving frantically for a taxi. But before one could even pull over, a sleek black car lurched forward, blocking my path. My own door was opened by a stone-faced guard.

​"Get in," Oliver said, his voice dropping into a low grumble. It wasn’t a request.

​I got in, mostly because my legs felt like lead and I didn’t have the strength to cause a scene in a hospital parking lot. As the car pulled away, the tension in the backseat was thick enough to choke on. I huddled against the door, staring out the window at the blurred trees, my mind racing through shifts, overtime, and loans I knew I’d never qualify for.

​"Why are you so closed up?"

​The question hit me like a physical blow. I turned to look at him, and for the first time, the "Alpha King" looked genuinely angry—not the cold, calculated anger I was used to, but a frustrated, raw anger.

​"Your brother is dying, Aurora," he growled, leaning toward me, invading my space with his scent. "I am offering to help, and you’re throwing it back in my face because of... what? Pride? You’d rather watch your brother die than let me help?"

​"It’s not just pride!" I yelled back, the tears finally spilling over again. "Nothing is ever free with men like you! You don’t just ’give,’ Oliver. You take. You’d own me. You’d have your golden leash around my neck, and I’d be just another trophy in your palace. I’ve lost my parents, and my brother is in a coma—my freedom is the only thing I have left!"

​I expected him to roar back, to demand respect, or to kick me out of the car. Instead, he stared at me, his jaw working as he fought back a response. His eyes darkened, swirling with an intensity that made my breath hitch.

​"You think I will want something in return?" he whispered, his voice angrily low as he moved even closer, trapping me between his body and the car door. He reached out, his large hand hovering near my face before he pulled it back, clenching it into a fist.

​"Tell me," he demanded, his eyes searching mine. "What did they do to you? Who taught you that every hand reached out to help is actually reaching out to strangle you?"

​I frowned and looked away but didn’t say a word. He won’t understand... he won’t understand what I went through in the past six years—how everyone who was supposed to help wanted something in return, and I knew his case would not be different.

​Seeing that I wasn’t going to respond, he pulled back and sat back in the seat while the drive continued. I swallowed hard, rested my head against the tinted glass and closed my eyes. Memories of four years ago flashed in my head. I was just sixteen and had just newly been released from the asylum. I was there for two years because I couldn’t stop talking about the "monsters" that killed my parents. They called it a psychotic break. I called it a massacre.

​When I was finally released, I thought I was going home. But there was no home left. My parents properties and money were seized by the bank for ridiculous reasons. My father’s "best friend," Patrick, had taken me in. At first, he seemed like a savior. He promised to look after James’s medical bills. He promised me a life.

​But "saviors" always have a price.

​I remembered the way Patrick’s eyes would linger on me when I walked into a room. I remembered the night he cornered me in the kitchen, his breath smelling of expensive scotch, telling me that since he was paying for my brother’s life, it was only fair that I showed him some... appreciation.

​I had escaped that house with nothing but the clothes on my back and a bruised soul. Since then, I had learned the hardest lesson of the streets: Kindness is just a down payment on a debt you can never finish paying.

​A sharp turn of the car jerked me back to the present. I opened my eyes to find Oliver watching me. The anger in his expression had shifted into something that looked like worry and concern, like he could see through my thoughts.

​"You’re shaking," he said. It wasn’t a question this time.

​I swallowed hard, looking away. "I’m fine. Just take me back to work. I need the hours."

​"No," he said firmly. He tapped the glass, signaling the driver. "We aren’t going to the office. And we aren’t going to your cramped apartment."

​My heart hammered. "Where are we going?"

​"We are going to have lunch."

​I furrowed my brow. "Lunch?" I repeated, the word sounding foreign and ridiculous in my mouth. "I don’t want lunch. I want to go back to the office, or—"

​"You haven’t eaten a proper meal in days, Aurora. I can smell the exhaustion on you, and it’s accompanied by a lack of nutrients," he stated, his voice returning to that clinical, dominant tone that usually made my blood boil. But now, it just felt... heavy. "You are no use to your brother if you collapse from malnutrition."

​I turned my head away, biting my lip. He was right, but I hated that he was right. I hated that he could read my body better than I could.

​The car slowed as we entered a private drive. This wasn’t a public restaurant. We were pulling up to a secluded estate, nestled behind high stone walls and guarded by men who stood as stiff as statues. My heart did that frantic little dance again—the "trapped" feeling clawing at my throat.

​"This isn’t a restaurant," I whispered, my hand instinctively reaching for the door handle.

​"It’s my private residence," Oliver said calmly. He didn’t move to grab me, but his presence was an anchor I couldn’t drift away from. "No paparazzi, no eyes. Just food. And then, we talk."

​The driver opened my door. I stepped out, feeling tiny against the backdrop of the massive limestone mansion. Oliver stepped out behind me, and I felt his hand hover just inches from the small of my back—not touching, but guiding.

​I stood paralyzed on the gravel driveway, looking up at the architectural masterpiece in front of me. It wasn’t just a house; it was a fortress draped in elegance.

​"This place..." I started, the words catching in my dry throat.

​Oliver stood beside me, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as he surveyed the estate with a look that wasn’t quite pride, but something more nostalgic. "It was a gift from my godfather on my twenty-third birthday," he said, his voice unusually quiet. "He told me every king needs a place where he can simply be a man. No one comes here without my express invitation. Not my Beta, not my guards. Just... us."

​The weight of that statement—just us—made my stomach do a nervous flip. He started walking toward the massive oak doors, and I found myself following him like a moth to a flame I knew would eventually burn me.

​Inside, the house was warm, smelling of cedar and expensive citrus. He didn’t lead me to a grand dining hall with long, intimidating tables. Instead, we wound through a series of hallways until we reached a kitchen that looked like it belonged to a professional chef, yet felt strangely lived-in.

​He stopped by a large marble island and shed his suit jacket, tossing it over a stool. Then, to my utter shock, he began rolling up his sleeves, revealing muscular forearms corded with veins and marked with tattoos. Ridiculously, my eyes went to both his wrists, but I saw nothing... no tattoos on either of his wrists... nothing...

​I swallowed hard. What was I thinking?

​He turned to me, his dark eyes glinting with a playfulness that felt dangerous because it was so charming. "So," he said, leaning against the counter. "What are we making?" 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝕨𝕖𝗯𝚗𝚘𝕧𝕖𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝕞

​I furrowed my brow, certain I had misheard him. "What?"

​His lips quirked into a smirk—a real one, not that arrogant twist he usually wore. "We are cooking our lunch ourselves, Aurora. Together."

​"You... you cook?" I stammered, looking at his large, powerful hands. Those were hands meant for breaking things, for crushing enemies, for holding a scepter. They didn’t look like they belonged near a whisk or a vegetable knife.

​"I find that when the world is chaotic, the precision of a recipe helps," he said, walking over to a massive sub-zero refrigerator and pulling out a crate of fresh greens, tomatoes, and steaks. "And besides, you look like you don’t trust anyone to touch your food. So, you’ll help me. That way, you know there’s no ’poison’ hidden in the sauce."

​He held out an apron toward me. "Pick a station, Aurora. Are you better with a knife, or are you going to watch me work and tell me I’m doing it wrong?"

​I stared at the apron, then at him. The Alpha King was offering me a knife and a seat at his table. Part of me wanted to run, but my stomach growled again, and for the first time in six years, I felt a tiny, microscopic spark of something that wasn’t fear.

​"I’m better with a knife," I whispered, reaching out to take the apron.

​"I figured as much," he murmured, his voice warm and playful. "Let’s see if those sharp words of yours translate to your skills on a cutting board."

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