The Alpha Behind The Mask-Chapter 66: Similarities

​Aurora’s POV

"What do you want, Raymond?" I asked through the door, my voice small and exhausted.

​"I’ve been calling you," he replied, his deep voice carrying a note of concern. "You didn’t pick up. I had to make sure you were okay."

​"I’m fine. Just leave," I replied, leaning my forehead against the cool wood of the door. "I don’t want to see anyone. Especially not tonight."

​"Aurora, open the door," he commanded, and for a second, the authority in his tone made my heart jump. "If you don’t open it, I’m going to break it down. I’m not leaving until I see you."

​I frowned, looking around my small, quiet apartment. The last thing I needed was him causing a scene and waking the neighbors. I didn’t have the energy for a scandal at my front door. With a sigh of defeat, I turned the lock and pulled the door open.

​Raymond stepped inside immediately. As he brushed past me, a familiar scent hit me. It was clean, sharp, and exactly like the soap Oliver had used earlier.

I froze for a moment.

Then I shook my head.

It’s just soap, Aurora, I told myself. Probably a brand a lot of Alphas use.

​Without saying another word, I walked back to my bed and sat on the edge, pulling my knees up to my chest.

Raymond remained near the door, his arms folded across his chest. With the mask hiding his face, he looked like a dark statue standing in the middle of my room.

​"What is wrong?" he asked.

​I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. If I started talking, I would start crying again, and I was so tired of crying. So I just looked away, staring at the floor.

​He sighed behind the mask, the sound heavy, then walked a little closer but still kept a respectful distance. "Are you hungry?"

​I frowned, lifting a brow as I glanced up at him... "Are you serious right now?"

​He chuckled. "Eating always helps a bad mood," he said, his voice teasing. But I didn’t find it funny. I didn’t find anything about this situation funny.

​"What do you have in here?" he asked, already moving toward my small kitchen area.

​I didn’t bother to answer. I just sat there, hugging my knees, watching him with a heavy heart. He was already opening my mini-fridge, his movements casual and confident. Luckily, I had restocked the kitchen a few days ago.

He glanced inside and nodded as if satisfied with what he found.

​As I watched him start to pull out ingredients, a sick feeling twisted in my stomach. It wasn’t hunger. It was guilt.

​Here he was, moving around my home like he belonged here. And here I was, sitting on my bed, watching him with a strange sense of admiration. My heart shouldn’t be racing for the way his broad shoulders moved under his dark shirt. I shouldn’t be noticing how efficiently he handled a knife.

​This man is my parents’ killer, I reminded myself, the thought a cold splash of water to my face.

​I was supposed to be planning my revenge. I was supposed to be finding a way to make him pay for the blood on his hands. Instead, I was sitting here, feeling comforted by his presence, drawn to the mystery behind that mask. I was admiring the very person who had destroyed my life.

​"You’re very quiet, Aurora," he said, not looking up from the counter as he began to prep the food.

​"I don’t have anything to say to you," I whispered.

​"That’s fine," he replied, his tone maddeningly relaxed. "I’ll do the talking. Or we can just have the silence. Sometimes the silence is better."

​He turned on the stove, and soon the smell of garlic and herbs began to fill the room. It was a domestic, normal scent that felt completely wrong for a night like this.

I watched the back of his head, wondering what face hid behind that mask.

I had imagined his face a thousand times. In my head, I drew pictures of him, trying to piece together the man behind the mask. Sometimes I imagined a stranger. But more and more, my mind kept drawing the same sharp jawline and high cheekbones of Alpha Oliver. The only thing that changed were the small details—his hair was a different shade, or his eyes were a darker blue.

​Minutes passed, and the silence began suffocating me, so I let my bitterness speak for me.

​"Do you do all this for all the ladies you want to fuck?" I asked, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Cook for them? Is this your way of getting into their pants?"

​Raymond paused, his hand hovering over the pan. Then, he let out a low, dark chuckle that sent a shiver down my spine. He slowly turned around to face me, leaning back against the counter with a casual grace that made my heart stutter.

​"First, you’re the only woman I’ve ever cooked for. I don’t usually spend my time in kitchens, Aurora."

​He took a step toward the bed, his presence suddenly filling the small room. He looked down at me, the mask hiding his expression, but I could feel the heat of his gaze.

​"And secondly," he leaned in closer, his voice a husky whisper that made my breath hitch, "I think I have already gotten into your pants. Or have you forgotten the way you screamed my name in this very room?"

​My face flamed red. The memory of that night came rushing back. I wanted to slap him, but I also wanted to pull him closer.

​"That was a mistake," I snapped, turning my head away.

He scoffed quietly but didn’t argue. Instead, he simply returned to the kitchen.

Which somehow made me feel even more foolish.

​I watched him silently as he finished cooking. The rich smell of the food made my stomach betray me with a quiet growl.

​Minutes later, he turned toward me, carrying a plate of steaming spaghetti, the sauce thick and perfectly seasoned. He moved with a step that was entirely too familiar, but I ignored it.

​Without a word, he set the plate down on the mattress beside me. The steam rose between us, but my focus wasn’t on the food. As he pulled his hand back, the sleeve of his dark shirt shifted, and my eyes locked onto his knuckles.

​The skin was smooth now, but there was a faint, lingering redness. It was the exact same spot where Alpha Oliver was injured by hitting the bathroom wall... The exact same hand.

​Without thinking, my fingers shot out. I grabbed his wrist, my pulse hammering against my skin as I pulled his hand closer to my face.

​Raymond stiffened, his entire body turning to stone as I held him. He didn’t pull away, but I could feel the tension vibrating through his arm. I traced the faint mark on his knuckle with my thumb, my breath hitching in my chest.

​"You’re injured," I whispered, my voice trembling as the pieces of the puzzle began to click into place with a terrifying snap. The soap. The walk. The voice. And now this. "How did you get this, Raymond?"

​