Page 35 of My Unhinged Alphas
He stands there like he’s braced for recoil. Like he’s already decided what my answer will be.
I stare at him. Not because I’m horrified, but because I wasn’t expecting it. The scar is brutal and honest and impossible to ignore. It pulls at the skin along his cheek and down his neck, a story written into him without permission.
For a split second, my brain blanks.
And then something far more inconvenient happens. Heat spreads low in my stomach. God help me. He thinks I’m going to flinch. I can see it in the way he holds himself—braced, jaw tight, waiting for disgust. Instead, my pulse spikes for an entirely different reason.
He steps forward suddenly and grabs my wrist. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm. Grounding. Demanding.
“Answer me,” he says, voice rougher now. “What do you have to say now?”
My back hits the wall behind me and he cages me there without even meaning to. Tall. Solid. Close enough that I can feel the warmth of him.
I swallow. My heart is racing, but not from fear alone.
“You really thought that would scare me off?” I whisper.
His grip tightens slightly. “It usually does.”
“Well,” I murmur, meeting his eyes, “I’m not usually.”
His breath stutters. “You don’t have to lie,” he says.
“I’m not lying.”
“You don’t look disgusted.”
“I’m not.”
Silence stretches, heavy and charged. I can feel my body betraying me—skin warm, nerves buzzing, the sharp awareness of him this close. The scar doesn’t make him less attractive. If anything, it makes him real.
“You’re still hot,” I say softly.
His jaw flexes. “That’s not funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
He searches my face like he’s waiting for the punchline.
“There’s nothing wrong with your face,” I continue, quieter now. “You survived something. That’s not ugly.”
His grip falters for just a second. “You don’t understand,” he says, but there’s less anger in it now. More something else. Raw.
“Then explain it to me,” I challenge gently.
His thumb shifts against my wrist, and the contact sends a sharper pulse through me than it should. “You shouldn’t want this,” he says.
“You don’t get to decide that,” I reply.
His eyes darken, conflict warring there—guilt, disbelief, desire. “I could hurt you,” he says.
“Right now?” I ask softly. “Or in theory?”
That almost pulls a broken laugh out of him. “You’re reckless.”
“I’m honest.”
He leans closer, just enough that our foreheads nearly touch. “Say it again,” he demands quietly. “Now that you can see me.”
