Page 5

The air went terrifyingly quiet except for the bass beat thumping faintly below.

The man lowered his lashes and brushed non-existent dust from his sleeve with elegant precision. But the oppressive aura around him didn't diminish—if anything, it tightened like an iron net over the entire hallway.

I looked past his shoulder at Freckles and Scraggly.

Their expressions were priceless. Freckles' alcohol-flushed face had drained white. Scraggly looked like a quail being strangled, trembling all over.

"M-Mr. Moretti..." Scraggly stammered, voice shaking.

Moretti?

That name struck like lightning through my foggy brain. At this afternoon's graduation ceremony, even though I'd been drowning in anxiety, I'd noticed who made the girls scream—Marcelo Moretti. In a city where you could throw a brick and hit a rich person, he still stood at the very top.

So why the hell was this top-tier Alpha at a college frat party reeking of cheap beer and vomit?

Mr. Moretti ignored Scraggly's attempt at flattery. He tilted his head slightly, cold gray-green eyes sweeping over the mess on the floor. The careless warmth in his expression vanished instantly, replaced by something almost cruel.

"Pick them up." His tone was calm but carried spine-chilling authority.

Freckles still hadn't caught on, stupidly clutching my photo of me reclining on a velvet chaise. "What?"

"I don't like repeating myself." Mr. Moretti narrowed his eyes. "Pick up everything that belongs to this lady. Every single piece. Apologize to her. Then get out of my sight."

Freckles' legs buckled. Scraggly reacted faster, shoving him aside and dropping to his knees on the wooden floor, scrambling like a beaten dog to gather the scattered photos. Sandy had already shrunk into the shadowy corner, barely daring to breathe.

In under ten seconds, the photos were stacked neatly and placed, along with my bag with its broken strap, in Scraggly's trembling hands. He held them out to Mr. Moretti.

"We're so, so sorry, ma'am! We were drunk, we're complete morons!" Scraggly kept his head down, words racing like he was reading a disclaimer.

Mr. Moretti looked at them coldly, didn't take anything, just gestured with his eyes toward me.

Scraggly immediately turned to me.

I stood frozen, heart slamming against my ribs, hearing nothing but my own heartbeat. I couldn't move.

Seeing I wouldn't take them, Scraggly quickly set the photos on a nearby decorative table, looking at Mr. Moretti with desperate pleading.

"Get out." Mr. Moretti's voice was ice.

They scrambled down the stairs, disappearing into the crowd in seconds.

The suffocating pressure finally eased slightly. I exhaled hard, my stretched nerves loosening just a fraction.

I turned, took a breath, preparing to thank this man who'd just saved what was left of my dignity. "Mr. Moretti, I'm so—"

"Fucking perfect."

That rough, low murmur cut me off without warning.

He wasn't listening to me at all.

The man's eyelids lowered as he looked down at the photos on the table. On top was the shot of me in ruby-red lace lingerie, back to camera, half-turned. The fabric was practically transparent, the angle capturing every lush curve of my waist, hips, and the soft flesh of my thighs in brutal detail.

He still held a half-burned cigar between his fingers. Those deep, cold gray-green eyes traced every inch of the photo's shocking curves. His Adam's apple rolled slowly.

He lifted his eyelids. His gaze moved from the photo to my body in the tight sequined dress, burning like actual flames.

"Beautiful." His voice went raspy. "That deep red lace makes all this flesh look like a ripe peach. Makes a man wonder if what's underneath is as juicy as what's showing."