Chapter 3
I should run, vanish or pretend I never existed. Because if Gray Westwood tells the Alpha what just happened, I might not
survive the fallout.
The thought alone makes my stomach churn.
I wanted to be part of the warriors in our pack. I still do. More than anything.
It’s all I’ve ever wanted–to stand on my own. To fight. To be more than some girl waiting to be chosen, waiting to be
protected, waiting to be claimed.
I was supposed to be strong.
My fingers curl into fists, nails digging into my palms. Hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to keep me here, in my body, in control.
I trained for years. Harder than the boys who sneered at me. Harder than the instructors who never let me forget that I wasn’t meant for this. That I would never be strong enough, fast enough, brutal enough.
And for what?
To always end up as an embarrassment? To be looked at, not as a warrior, but as something else?
No she–wolf has ever made it to the top ranks. Not one. Not because we can’t–but because they won’t let us. Because in their eyes, we’re not fighters. We’re not equals. We’re just something to claim. Something to knot..
I refuse to be just another she–wolf waiting for someone to decide my worth. I will carve it out myself.
I groan and shove a pillow over my face. A sharp knock on my door yanks me back to reality.
“Jessica! Are you alive in there?”
I groan. “I am not mom! Leave me alone please!”
For one blessed second, I think she’s actually going to listen. “Get up, sweetheart. The Alpha is here. He wants to see you.”
I sit bolt upright.
“Mom,” I say, slowly, carefully. ““When you say ‘the Alpha‘… do you mean… Gray’s father?”
“Of course,” she says, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Who else would I mean?”
I exhale.
Long. Slow. Relieved.
Oh, thank the gods.
I was so sure. so sure this was about Gray.
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That he’d decided to track me down, humiliate me further, demand I apologize for embarrassing him in front of the
warriors or some shit.
But no.
This is fine.
This is better.
Because while the Alpha is terrifying, at least he doesn’t actively go out of his way to make my life miserable.
Unlike his son.
“Give me a second!” I call out, already climbing out of bed, dragging my hands through my tangled hair.
I’m still in my sleep clothes.
An oversized sando, shorts, bed hair so bad it could legally be classified as a crime.
Do I care?
Nope.
Because it’s just the Alpha.
Because at least it’s not Gray fucking Westwood. I stumble downstairs, rubbing my face, yawning.
I don’t bother checking a mirror.
I don’t bother grabbing a sweater.
I don’t bother preparing myself.
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Because I think–**i believe–**that when I step into the living room, I will see a middle–aged, terrifyingly composed, cold- blooded Alpha standing there.
What I do not expect-
What I do not prepare for-
Is the tall, broad–shouldered, ridiculously unfair, infuriatingly broody figure leaning against the wall like he owns the place.
I stop dead in my tracks.
He lifts his head.
Our eyes meet.
And suddenly, I remember.
The first time Gray Westwood ever looked at me like this.
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It was years ago. I had snuck into the training grounds, hiding behind the storage shed, watching the older warriors spar. I had been so fascinated by their strength, their precision, the way Gray moved like he had been born to lead. But then… he had turned. As if he had felt me watching. Our eyes had locked, and for the first time in my life, I had felt truly, utterly seen.
However, that immediately turned into a bad memory because when I turned fifteen and was finally required to join the pack training. I had been excited–nervous, but excited. I had trained in secret, pushing my body, preparing myself for the moment I could finally prove I belonged.
And then Gray had been there. He was the one assessing the young wolves.
Thad stepped forward for my first spar, fists tight, heart pounding. Before I even had a chance to move, my opponent–a seasoned warrior–had knocked me to the ground. Hard. The air had been forced from my lungs, the world tilting for a moment as I gasped, struggled, forced myself up-
And Gray had laughed.
Not loud. Not cruel. But it had been there, under his breath, just enough for me to hear. Just enough to carve itself into my bones like a permanent scar.
ere rever
That was the moment I had decided: I would forever hate Gray Westwood! And now, standing here, staring at him in my living room, that same weight crashes down on me.
I immediately want to set myself on fire. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?”
Gray’s gaze drags down my body. Slowly. Like he’s assessing, deciding. Something in his posture shifts–just slightly–but it’s enough. Enough to make my pulse trip. Enough to make something primal inside me tighten.
I follow his gaze and then–I realize. My nipples are poking in my thin shirt. My fingers curl into my shirt. My shoulders bunch, heat licking up my throat as I shift under his stare.
I whip around so fast I nearly give myself whiplash, throwing my arms over my chest, cursing myself, cursing the gods, cursing my entire bloodline.
“Don’t look!” I shriek.
Gray… says nothing.
“Why are you in my house?!” I demand, still facing away from him, still contemplating running straight out of the nearest window.
Gray’s lips twitch–just the barest hint of amusement. “You weren’t waking up.”
His voice is quiet, low, the kind that makes you lean in without realizing you’re doing it. I straighten, fighting the instinct to shrink under it. “So you decided to break into my house?” My voice is meant to sound sharp. It isn’t.
Gray leans in slightly, the heat of him wrapping around me like a second skin. “You were mine to wake.”
I whip back around, forgetting my current disaster situation in favor of processing the new disaster situation.
“I–what?!”
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Gray raises an eyebrow. “I was sent to get you. You wouldn’t wake up. So I waited.”
HE WAITED IN MY HOUSE.
“YOU WAITED?!” I choke. “YOU–YOU JUST–WHAT–HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN HERE?!”
“Long enough.”
There’s a amusement tone in that. I am not sure if I am just imagining things but he looks satisfied? Of what?
Gray sighs.
“Wilkinson.”
“NO.”
I stumble away from the wall, still flustered, still overheating, still actively combusting from the inside out.
“No, ham not doing this today. I am not talking to you. I am not dealing with you. You are not here. This is a bad dream. I am going back to sleep.”
I spin around, ready to bolt back upstairs. I pivot so fast my foot catches on the step behind me. My foot misses. Or catches. Or–something. Because suddenly, I’m not running anymore. I’m falling.
Oh gods.
Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods-
I close my eyes.
This is it.
This is how I die.
I am going to break my skull open on the floor, and Logan is going to lau people I was always reckless, and Gray-
at my funeral, and my mom is going to tell
Gray is going to be the last person I ever see. And for some reason, that thought is more terrifying than the fall itself. One second I’m falling, the world tilting. The next–Heat. Strength. The scent of
im_pine and something dark, something undeniably male–floods my senses.
Gray catches me like he was expecting it. Like he was waiting for the moment I’d stumble right into his hands. His grip is firm, possessive, his fingers splaying wide against my waist, as if testing how well I fit beneath them.
His chest is solid against mine, the warmth of him bleeding into my skin, and I swear–I swear–I hear the faintest sound of his breath hitching. Or maybe that’s just me. Maybe I’m imagining things. Because when I lift my head, Gray’s expression is unreadable. Except for his eyes.
His eyes are locked onto mine, dark and steady, like a wolf with its teeth already buried in the throat of its prey. Waiting for
the moment to finish the kill.
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And then–Gray growls.
That’s when I realized I did not just fall right in his arms but very, very braless chest- Is pressed against him.
My nipples.
My fucking nipples is brushing against his bare, warm, rock–hard chest. The second I part my lips to say ‘I’m sorry‘, something else comes out. A breathy, soft, humiliating fucking sound.
A moan.
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Gray stills–but not like a man restraining himself. No, he stills like a wolf savoring the way its prey trembles in its jaws. His breath drags in slow, heavy. His fingers twitch against my waist, pressing in just slightly–like he’s testing something, like he’s memorizing the shape of me.
Then, his pupils dilate.
His chest moves against mine, slow and deliberate. Like he’s breathing me in.
And just for a second–for the briefest, most fleeting moment–he leans in.
“Fuck, Jess—” His voice is wrecked. Low. Unsteady. “I can smell your fucking arousal.”
W–What?
No.
No, that’s not-
That can’t be-
Gray’s breath shudders.
He stares at me, something unreadable flickering across his face–something wild, reckless, barely restrained. Then, he curses under his breath. A sharp, low sound.
He drags a hand through his hair, exhaling slow, like he’s trying to get himself under control and then- he rips his hands off me like my skin just burned him alive.
For the first time ever, Gray Westwood looks at me like he doesn’t know what the fuck is happening. “…Fuck.”
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