“At least cover yourself before traumatizing our little runaway further,” Marco suggested, tossing Stefano the towel, though his tone suggested he was enjoying my discomfort immensely.
Stefano wrapped the towel around his waist, though it did little to diminish his overwhelming presence. “Better?” he asked me with a raised eyebrow.
“Marginally,” I admitted grudgingly. “Though your personality remains as exposed and offensive as ever.”
“Your shirt,” he demanded, holding out his hand. “Now.”
“Not happening,” I replied, wrapping my arms tighter around myself.
“Always the hard way with you.” He sighed, and before I could react, he was on me.
four
. . .
His hands were suddenly at the hem of my soaking t-shirt before I could blink. The man moved like lightning when he wanted something.
“What? No!” I yelped, grabbing his wrists to stop him. “Don’t you fucking dare!”
My resistance seemed to amuse rather than deter him. With one swift movement, he spun me around and pinned me against his chest, one arm wrapped around my torso while his free hand resumed its assault on my shirt. Fantastic. The Neanderthal approach to problem-solving—when in doubt, manhandle the omega.
“Your preference has been noted and ignored,” Stefano replied, his mouth suddenly at my neck, breath hot against my skin as he yanked my t-shirt up and over my head in one smooth motion.
I immediately tried to cover myself, crossing my arms over my chest, but Stefano spun me to face him, capturing my wrists and holding them at my sides. If there was a competition forMost Invasive Alpha, he’d win the gold medal and sweep the silver and bronze categories too.
“Let me go, you psychotic dickwad!” I snarled, trying to kick him but all I managed was to lose my balance on the slippery shore, stumbling against him, my bare chest colliding with his. “What part of ‘no’ translates to ‘please manhandle me’ in your Neanderthal brain?”
For one electric moment, we froze like that—skin to skin, his hands gripping my wrists, my face inches from his. I could see every detail of his features—the cobalt blue of his irises that seemed to burn with their own dangerous fire, the slight stubble along his jaw, the way his pupils dilated as he looked down at me.
"Here," Marco said, tossing a black t-shirt to Stefano. "Though I'm not sure he deserves the courtesy."
Stefano caught the shirt with one hand while maintaining his grip on my wrists with the other. He kept me pinned against him, our faces so close I could feel his breath on my lips. "He doesn't deserve it," he agreed, eyes never leaving mine. "But we're not animals."
"Could have fooled me," I muttered, trying to ignore how my heart was pounding against my ribs. "The zoo called. They want their alpha gorillas back."
Meanwhile, Matteo waded into the shallow water and retrieved my sodden backpack from where I'd dropped it, water streaming from the fabric as he lifted it.
Stefano finally released my wrists, his thumb brushing against my pulse point one last time, probably feeling my heart doing the samba against my will. Traitor body, always ready to embarrass me at the worst possible moments.
"Arms up," he commanded.
“I can dress myself,” I snapped. “I’ve been doing it successfully for twenty-one years without alpha assistance. It’s ashirt, not nuclear physics. Though given your evolutionary stage, I understand why buttons might confuse you.”
“Arms. Up.” This time his voice carried that unmistakable alpha command that bypassed rational thought and went straight to the hindbrain.
My arms raised slightly before I could stop myself, a reflexive response to the command tone that made me want to scream with frustration. It was like my body and brain had separate agendas—one determined to maintain dignity, the other perfectly happy to roll over for the nearest dominant alpha. Stefano smirked, clearly noting my involuntary compliance, and slipped the shirt over my head. It fell to mid-thigh on me, the neckline so wide it slipped off one shoulder. Great. The “drowned waif in boyfriend’s shirt” look. Just what my dignity needed.
“Now the shorts,” he said, hands moving to my waistband.
That snapped me back to full resistance. “Touch my shorts and I’ll rearrange your face so thoroughly your own mother won’t recognize you,” I growled, backing away until I hit a tree. “I’ll make your dental records the biggest mystery since the Bermuda Triangle. Archaeologists will study your remains and wonder what kind of ancient torture technique was used to bend a human spine that way.”
Stefano followed, crowding me against the rough bark, one hand braced beside my head. The tree at my back and him at my front created a perfect picture of “trapped omega” that probably featured in his spank bank fantasies. “You’re soaking wet. The shorts need to come off.”
“I’ll take them off myself,” I hissed. “Back the fuck up and turn around. Or is the concept of basic decency too advanced for your alpha pea-brain? Did you skip that day in Respecting Boundaries 101?”
“And give you another chance to run?” Marco asked with a laugh. “Not likely. Though I’d pay good money to watch you try with those wet shorts weighing you down. Like a cat in molasses.”
“Fine,” I snapped. “Then I’ll stay in wet shorts. My discomfort, my choice. I’d rather get trench foot than give you three the peep show you’re obviously angling for. Maybe I can develop some rare fungal infection that’s only contagious to alphas with delusions of grandeur.”
