The Alpha Behind The Mask-Chapter 38: Jealous

​Aurora’s POV

​He walked in wearing a long black hoodie and grey sweatpants, but as he moved, my eyes involuntarily drifted to the heavy weight between his legs. I swallowed hard, feeling a sudden flare of heat in my cheeks, and forced myself to look away.

​He stood at the door of the closet, just staring at me. The intensity of his gaze made me so nervous that I reached up and tucked a stray lock of my red hair behind my ear—a habit I had inherited from my late mother whenever I was shy or overwhelmed.

​He didn’t say anything at first. He simply went to the bar, grabbed two fresh bottles, and carried them over to the middle of the room. Instead of sitting on the expensive furniture, he sat directly on the floor.

​"I’m more comfortable here," he said, his voice sounding deeper, more relaxed from the alcohol.

​I followed his lead, sitting down across from him on the plush carpet. For a few minutes, we just drank in a heavy, companionable silence. The liquor was starting to numb my mind, making the room feel smaller and the distance between us feel dangerously short.

​"How was life for you... after the death of your parents?" he asked suddenly. The question cut through the silence like a knife.

​I swallowed hard, the memory of those cold years rising up to choke me. "Terrible," I whispered. "I was in an asylum for almost two years."

​His eyes widened, the blue depths shimmering with a shock that looked like genuine pain. I could tell he wanted to push, to ask what they had done to me in that place, but I held up a hand.

​"Please... don’t ask me more."

​He nodded respectfully, though his jaw remained tight. I took a large gulp of my drink, the liquid courage finally giving me the strength to ask the question that had been burning in my mind since the party.

​"Why do you have such a strained relationship with your siblings from your mother’s side?" I asked, my voice trembling slightly.

​He let out a long, heavy sigh and leaned his head back against the edge of the bed. "It’s a long story," he said, his eyes clouding over with old shadows, "but I’ll make it short for you. I’m jealous of them."

​I raised a brow, confused. As if sensing my confusion, he spoke.

​"They got to spend time with her while growing up," he said, his voice laced with bitterness. "Mostly Oscar, because she decided to choose his father. Ozzy usually visits her and stays with her every holiday. But I? I never visit. I couldn’t. So, right now, in the past seventeen years, I can tell you I have seen my mother no more than four times."

​I was shocked. For the past seventeen years? Just four times? My heart ached for him. To have a mother who was alive but so physically and emotionally distant felt like a different kind of mourning.

​He drank more and more, and I wondered what had happened to cause such a rift. He reached for the bottle again, but this time I moved faster. I snatched the drink away, holding it out of his reach.

​"It’s too much," I said firmly.

​He laughed drunkenly, the sound rich and vibrating in the small space between us. "You’re bold, huh? Snatching your Alpha’s drink?"

​I rolled my eyes, feeling the alcohol buzzing in my own veins, making me braver than I should be. I decided I should lighten the mood before the darkness of the conversation swallowed us whole.

​"Let’s play Two Truths and a Lie," I suggested, trying to spark a bit of playfulness in his cloudy eyes.

​Oliver agreed with a nod, but not before reaching out with lightning-fast reflexes to snatch the drink back from my hands. He didn’t pull away immediately; his fingers lingered against mine, his heat seeping into my skin.

​"Now, we can play," he murmured, his voice thick and low.

​"I’ll start," I said, trying to ignore the way my pulse hammered in my throat. "I’ll say three things. Two are true and one is a lie."

​He nodded, taking a large gulp of the drink and settling back against the mahogany bed frame, his eyes fixed on me.

​"First," I began, "I am 5’5" in height. Second, my favorite protein is chicken. And third, I hate strawberries. Which is the lie?"

​Oliver didn’t even hesitate. A ghost smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You hate strawberries. That’s the lie. You love them."

​My mouth fell open slightly. He was right. Even through his drunken haze, he was incredibly sharp. He smiled then—a real, genuine smile that reached his sea-blue eyes. Seeing him smile, even in the midst of all the pain we had just discussed, made my heart flutter unexpectedly.

​"My turn," he said, leaning forward until the scent of him—now mixed with the sharp tang of liquor—overwhelmed my senses. "My favorite country is Singapore. My favorite color is black. And the color of my wolf is gray."

​I laughed, the sound loud in the quiet room. "Come on, Alpha Oliver! That’s way too easy. It’s obvious your wolf is black. The portrait is right over there!" I gestured toward the massive painting hanging above his bed.

​He laughed again, a deep, rich sound that vibrated in the air between us. I felt it then—that strange, fluttering feeling of butterflies flapping in my stomach. In the romance books I used to sneak into the asylum, they always said that meant the female lead was falling for the male lead.

​I shook the thought off immediately. No. Absolutely not. I wasn’t falling for the Alpha King. Maybe I was just hungry. Or maybe it was just the alcohol.

​"You’re right," he admitted, his gaze softening as it rested on my face. "My wolf is as black as the abyss. Your turn again."

​I bit my lip, the playful atmosphere suddenly feeling charged with something else.

​"Okay," I whispered, my heart rate picking up.