The Alpha Behind The Mask-Chapter 40: Pretending

Oliver’s POV

​I wasn’t asleep.

​The alcohol was a heavy fog in my brain, making my limbs feel like lead and my pulse thrum with a dull ache, but I was well aware of every inch of the woman beneath me. I had dropped my head into the crook of her neck and forced my breathing to slow into a deep, rhythmic cadence, feigning a drunken stupor.

​It was the hardest thing I’d ever done.

​If I didn’t pretend to pass out, I would have lost every ounce of control I had left. I would have stripped that shirt—my shirt—off her body and buried myself so deep inside her she’d forget her own name. I could feel her heart hammering against my chest like a trapped bird, and the way she had squeezed me just moments ago... it nearly broke me. I knew she wanted it. Every frantic breath and every tilt of her hips told me she was ready.

​But she wasn’t herself. She had had too much to drink, and despite the beast clawing at my insides to claim what we wanted, I couldn’t do it. Not like this. I wouldn’t have her waking up tomorrow wondering if I had taken advantage of her vulnerability. I wanted her to remember every touch, every spark, with a clear head.

It wouldn’t be right to do it this way. I didn’t want her to wake up the next morning feeling sick with regret or wondering if I had forced her. If we were going to cross that line, I wanted it to be real. I wanted her to be fully aware of what was happening so she couldn’t blame the alcohol later.

​If we are going to fuck, it has to be because she wants it with a clear head. I want her to look me in the eye and know exactly what she is doing.

​I felt her hands on my shoulders, pushing gently. I made myself stay limp, a heavy weight pressing her into the silk sheets. She let out a soft groan, the sound vibrating against my skin.

​"Oliver?" she whispered, her voice a mix of frustration and relief.

​I didn’t move. I heard her sigh, a long, shaky breath that told me she was trying to settle her own racing pulse. She went quiet, and for a long moment, the only sound in the room was the ticking of the clock on the bedside table.

​I wondered what she would do now. Would she try to roll me off and slip away? Would she look through my things while she thought I was dead to the world? Or would she stay right here, wrapped in my scent and my clothes, and let the night swallow us both?

​I felt her hand move. Not to push me away this time, but tentatively sliding upward, her fingertips grazing the hair at the nape of my neck. My wolf stirred, letting out a low, internal growl of satisfaction.

​"Goodnight, Oliver," she whispered into the silence of the room.

​I felt her shift, carefully maneuvering her body out from under mine. She moved with such caution, clearly terrified of waking the "sleeping" beast. Once free, she didn’t run for the door as I half-expected. Instead, she stayed, lying down on the edge of the mattress beside me.

​I kept my breathing heavy and slow, fighting every instinct I had to reach out and pull her back against me. It was for the best.

For several minutes, I remained perfectly still, listening to the gradual change in her own breathing until the telltale rhythm of sleep took over.

​Only then did I allow my eyes to snap open.

​I turned onto my side, propping my head on my hand as I stared at her in the moonlight. She was breathtaking. Her red hair was fanned out across my black silk pillows like a spill of embers, and her face was finally peaceful, stripped of the guarded walls she usually kept high.

​God, what is this feeling? My chest felt tight, a strange ache radiating from my heart that had nothing to do with the alcohol. It couldn’t be love. I didn’t believe in that fairy tale, and I certainly didn’t want it. It was just the sensation, I told myself.

​I forced my eyes shut, clutching the edge of the blanket and dragging myself into a restless sleep.

​The sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows felt like needles in my eyes. I groaned, my head throbbing with the expected rhythm of a heavy hangover.

​As my vision cleared, I saw her. Aurora was already up, seated stiffly on the velvet couch across from the bed. She looked pale, her fingers twisting together in her lap as she watched me wake.

​"Good morning," she said, her voice small. She swallowed hard, her eyes darting toward the door as if planning an escape route.

​I sat up slowly, rubbing my temples and doing my best to look utterly disoriented. I needed to play this perfectly. "Morning," I rasped, my voice thick. I looked around the room, then back at her, feigning a sudden realization. "Did you... did you pass the night here?"

​A flash of fear crossed her face—fear mixed with something that looked suspiciously like heartbreak. "Do you not remember what happened, Alpha?"

​I narrowed my eyes, looking thoughtful, then shook my head. "I remember the game. We were sitting on the floor, drinking... after that, nothing. It’s a total blank."

​I watched her closely. She looked deeply hurt for a split second—as if the kiss and the passion we shared meant nothing to me—but then a wave of relief washed over her features. She slumped her shoulders, her secret safe.

​"Oh," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "Yes... I’m sorry. I think I might have passed out after the liquor got to me. I didn’t mean to stay in your bed."

​I let out a dry, forced chuckle, leaning back against the headboard. "Don’t apologize, Aurora. It seems we both passed out."

​The lie tasted like ash in my mouth, but seeing her relax was worth the bitterness.

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