Alpha, it whispered.Strong. Protective. MINE.
"Shut up," I muttered to myself, to the voice I couldn't silence, to the instincts that were slowly, inexorably winning the war against my reason.
Caleb's lips twitched. The barest hint of movement—not quite a smile, but close. The first expression I'd seen on that stone-carved face. Then he turned and walked away, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway until they faded into silence. I stared at the empty doorway for a long time after he left, my heart pounding, my body aching, my mind racing with thoughts I didn't want to have.
That night, Mason came.
He didn't bring food this time, I'd eaten what Leo left, eventually, and someone had removed the empty tray while I was in the bathroom. He just appeared in the doorway, golden and beautiful in the soft lamplight, and looked at me with those honey-warm eyes.
Mason was the most deceptively handsome of the four. Deceptive because he looked safe. Approachable. The kind of man you'd trust to walk you home at night, never suspecting the wolf beneath the sheep's clothing. His hair was golden blond, the color of summer wheat, falling in soft waves that framed a face almost too pretty to be real. High cheekbones. A strong but gentle jaw. Full lips that curved easily into smiles that made you want to smile back. And his eyes—God, his eyes. Warm brownshot through with honey gold, the kind of eyes that made you feel seen. Cherished. Safe.
He was tall—over six feet—with an athletic build that spoke of discipline rather than vanity. Not as broad as Caleb, not as lean as Leo, but perfectly proportioned. Comfortable in his own skin in a way that made everyone around him comfortable too. He was wearing a cream-colored cable-knit sweater that looked impossibly soft, dark jeans, and no shoes. His feet were bare against the hardwood, and somehow that small detail made him seem more human. More approachable.
More dangerous. Mason's danger wasn't in his size or his strength or his cold intelligence. It was in how much you wanted to trust him. How easy it was to forget what he really was.
"Can I come in?" he asked, his voice soft and warm as his eyes. I wanted to say no. I should have said no.
"The room or the nest?" I heard myself ask instead.
"The room, for now," he replied, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Unless you want me in the nest."
I didn't. I did. I didn't know what I wanted anymore.
"The room," I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper. "Not the nest."
He nodded, stepping inside with that easy grace that made everything he did look effortless. He settled into the armchair Leo had occupied earlier, folding his long body into the seat with comfortable familiarity. Close enough that I could smell him, that damned honey-sunshine scent that made my head swim, but not close enough to touch.
"Ethan says you ate," he said, watching me with those warm, patient eyes.
"Is that what we're doing?" I asked bitterly. "Monitoring my food intake?"
"We're taking care of you," Mason replied, his voice gentle but firm. "That includes making sure you don't starve yourself out of spite."
"It's not spite. It's protest."
"It's self-harm." He leaned forward slightly, elbows bracing on his knees, and his expression grew serious. "And we're not going to let you hurt yourself, Red. Not even to prove a point."
Red.
The nickname sent a jolt through me, memory and emotion tangling together until I couldn't breathe. He'd called me that since I was ten. Since the day I'd arrived at Harper Manor with my red hair and my green eyes and my desperate need to belong somewhere.
I'd loved it then. The way it sounded in his mouth. The way it made me feel seen. I hated it now. Hated how much I still loved it.
"Don't call me that," I said, my voice sharper than I intended.
"I've been calling you that for eleven years," Mason replied easily, that soft smile still playing at his lips. "I'm not going to stop now."
"I'm not the same person I was eleven years ago." I told him with a glare.
"No." He leaned back in the chair, regarding me with those honey-warm eyes that saw too much. "You're stronger. Fiercer. More yourself than you've ever been. Three years of running taught you how to survive. Now let us teach you how to live."
"This isn't living," I shot back, gesturing at the beautiful room, the sealed windows, the locked door beyond. "This is captivity."
"Is it?" Mason's gaze swept the room, the expensive furniture, the soft blankets, the elaborate nest I'd built and couldn't seem to leave. When his eyes returned to mine, they were gentle. Understanding. Infuriating. "You have everythingyou need here," he continued. "Everything you want. A pack that loves you. A home that's been waiting for you. A place where you don't have to hide what you are."
"I have a prison," I corrected him flatly. "A gilded one, but still a prison."
"For now, maybe." He nodded, conceding the point. "But it won't always be. Someday, the doors will open and you won't want to leave. Someday, you'll look at this place and see home instead of cage. Someday?—"
