The handler just shakes his head like I’m some sort of lost cause before pressing a few buttons on the high-tech-looking pad by the door, making the lock hiss open.
The moment the door creaks open, I suddenly realize why everyone thinks I’m going to die.
My heart leaps to my throat as a twisted, broken, metallic scent hits my nostrils. Leather, iron, and a healthy dose of blood.
“Get in,” the handler grunts, shoving me forward into the dark room.
The only light comes from a single recessed light in the ceiling. Its plastic cover is splattered with what looks eerily like dried blood.
The water sloshes inside the bucket as I stumble inside, the thick metal door screeching as the handler hurries to close it as quickly as he can.
As my eyes adjust to the darkness, they finally catch sight of where the scent is coming from.
Or rather,whothe scent is coming from.
The man chained to the wall by his wrists and ankles is nothing short of a wall of muscle.
And by wall of muscle, I mean he nearly takes up the entire back wall, and this room isn’t exactly small.
I take a shallow breath, drip-feeding myself his scent as I adjust to the... enormity of this man. In all senses of the word.
Similarto Ash, his entire torso is littered with scars and fresh injuries, and he’s only been allowed to wear a pair of skintight boxers.
When I drag my gaze up his body and to his face, I freeze.
Oh my god.
Beyond his messy, shoulder-length, jet black hair, his gaze is piercingly intense, especially with his molten amber eyes. But one of them, his left eye, is a little cloudy. There’s a network of old, pale scars, jagged and violent, from the top of his forehead all the way down to his upper cheekbone.
It feels a little strange, trying to estimate his age, considering how much his body has been through, but from where I’m looking, he’s had those scars for a very long time.
My heart hurts at the thought of all that he’s had to go through.
I take a small step forward and his lips curl back in a snarl.
The growl that leaves his chest makes me freeze. It’s like I’m pinned under it, unable to move. The sound bounces around in my head before it strangely settles somewhere in my lower belly.
In the past few days here at the Mercer Family Farm, I’ve definitely learned what a lecherous leer looks like.
And even though I’m completely naked and this alpha’s gaze is as hot as the sun, it doesn’t leave that slimy sort of residue that I’ve expected from... well, everyone but Rowan and the alpha fighters.
“H—Hi,” I say, setting the bucket and rags down, lifting my hands up and trying to show him I don’t mean any harm. “My name is Mirabelle, but—but my friends call me Mira. I’m sorry I’m not wearing any clothes, they took them away from me earlier. I know that probably makes this a little awkward.”
The only response he gives me is another growl as his gaze dips down to my breasts. I fight the urge to cover them, because what’s the point? He’s going to see them anyway, since my hands will be occupied soon.
“I’m here to help get you cleaned up,” I say. “It looks like you were in a pretty intense fight.”
There are fresh bruises blooming across his large torso, and his legs are covered in some sand and grime. What draws my gaze themost, though, is the dried blood crusted and splattered on his arms.
Did he fight against the chains like Griffin did?
I glance nervously down at my nakedness. No clothes to tear up as makeshift bandages this time. Maybe I can use the rags if need to?
“I’m not going to hurt you, I promise,” I continue.
He offers me no answer, but his growling stops.
I pick the bucket and the towels back up and take a hesitant step forward. He lets me take four before he growls menacingly again.
