21
1605 Words
KNOX
Whoever thought locking me up in a manor with the woman of my dreams was a good idea deserved to be shot or tortured, slowly.
It had been several days of this madness. Several days of cold showers and self-control I didn’t know I possessed. Every day, I woke up to temptation. She’d walk around with her hair messy from sleep and a faint citrus scent that clung to her skin, and I told myself not to touch her. Every night, I watched her walk past me in one of those silk sleep shirts she clearly wore just to torture me, and I told myself not to lose it. It was a special kind of hell.
The worst part was that I didn’t even know if she was aware of what she was doing to me. Celeste was a contradiction. Her voice was soft; her eyes and every movement she made were cautious and calculated. But sometimes, I’d catch her forgetting herself, like when she’d smile or give a half-laugh when I teased her.
The problem wasn’t just that she was beautiful. The problem was that she belonged to herself alone. Everything she did made me want to tear down her walls and crawl inside her mind. She didn’t even breathe near me without restraint. She was polite, detached, and distant, and somehow it only made her sexier.
When I wasn’t trying to keep my hands off her, I was trying to keep my temper in check. Every morning, new updates came in: her father seemed to be stirring something that smelled a lot like treachery. He was planning something. But she didn’t need to know that yet. She’d earned her vengeance. I’d handle the rest.
For now, I wanted her to trust me. To stop looking at me like I was another bastard waiting to ruin her. So, I focused on something harder. Getting Celeste to open up.
“Let’s do something together,” I told her one lazy afternoon. She looked suspicious immediately.
“Something… together?” she repeated, brows raised. “Morrison, if this is another training session, I’ll pass.”
I smirked. “No. We need to start acting like an actual couple. The world needs to believe we’re deeply in love. So, we might as well act on it.”
She raised a brow. “And what does that entail, Morrison?”
“Simple,” I said. “We start doing things together. Breakfast. Walks. Maybe play a few games to make it look real as we learn about each other.”
Her eyes narrowed, suspicious. “Games?”
I smirked. “Yeah. You know — cards, chess, truth or dare.”
“I’m not playing truth or dare with you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I know what kind of questions you’d ask.”
“You don’t trust me?” I teased.
She glared. “You’re the last person on this planet I’d trust.”
I chuckled. “Then it’ll be fun.”
We started with simple things, chess, cards, and a guessing game about each other’s habits. She pretended not to care, but I caught the flicker of amusement every time she won. When she lost, she demanded a rematch until she won again.
“You’re still so damn competitive, sweetheart.” I teased after she slammed down a winning card.
“I hate losing.”
I smirked. “You’ll hate being my Luna then.”
“Please,” she scoffed. “You’ll be lucky if I ever wear that title like it means something.”
“Oh, it means something,” I said quietly. Her gaze snapped up, our eyes locking longer than they should’ve. Then she looked away first, pretending to shuffle the deck.
Every interaction was like a delicate dance between fire and restraint. I’d throw out a spark, she’d pretend not to feel the burn. But I saw it. I saw her breathing quicken, her pupils dilate.
She’d ask questions. About my pack, about Jasper, about Ingrid. One night, she even asked what my favorite color was.
“Black,” I said automatically.
She smirked. “Typical Alpha answer.”
“You asked.”
“And your favorite food?”
“Whatever you’re eating.”
Her eyes snapped to mine. “That’s not an answer.”
“It is when you’re the answer.”
She rolled her eyes so hard I thought they’d get stuck. But she didn’t hide the smile.
Days fell into a rhythm. We trained, ate, and shared space like a couple pretending to be normal. Sometimes she’d sit near the fireplace, curled up with a book, her hair falling into her face. I’d sit across from her, pretending to read reports, but really I was studying her, memorising the way she chewed the inside of her cheek when she was thinking, and the way her lashes fluttered when she started to nod off.
Once, she actually fell asleep midpage. I found her curled up, face soft, every bit of her guard gone. For a long moment, I just stood there, watching her. Then I pulled a blanket over her shoulders. She stirred slightly, murmuring something in her sleep. My chest ached in ways I didn’t like.
The next morning, I’d been reviewing reports in the study when I caught the faint scent of smoke. Instinct kicked in before thought. I followed it to the kitchen.
“Celeste—”
“s**t, it’s fine!” she snapped, waving a dish towel at a small fire on the stove. “I had it under control!”
“Yeah?” I muttered, striding over to shut off the burner. “You planning to burn the place down before breakfast?”
She glared at me but hissed softly, shaking her hand. I caught the scent of singed skin and cursed.
“Let me see.”
“I said it’s fine.”
“Stop being stubborn,” I said, catching her hand.
She tried to pull away. “I said I’m fine, Morrison!”
“Sit down.”
Her eyes flared at the command, but she obeyed. I crouched in front of her, taking her hand gently, inspecting the wrist.
Her fingers were red, one spot already blistering slightly. I growled low in my chest before grabbing the first aid kit.
“You should’ve called for help,” I muttered, unscrewing the ointment cap. “You don’t need to do everything yourself.”
“I didn’t think you would want to play nurse.” She smirked, hiding the pain behind sarcasm.
“I’ll play whatever role keeps you from hurting yourself again,” I shot back.
Her breath hitched, and I realized just how close we were. My thumb brushed over her wrist, steadying her hand as I spread the ointment. Her skin was warm, soft.
“Does it hurt?” I asked quietly.
“Only when you touch it,” she whispered.
I froze.
She smiled, a dangerous smile. “Relax, Alpha. I was joking.”
“Not funny,” I said, my voice lower than I intended. “You’re lucky I have self-control.”
She tilted her head. “Is that what this is? Self-control?”
I looked up at her lips parted slightly, her breath unsteady. “Barely.”
For a second, the air between us thickened. Then she snatched her hand back.
“Thank you,” she muttered, walking off toward the pantry.
I exhaled hard. My pulse was still pounding. She was going to kill me at this rate.
I decided to shift tactics.
We started cooking together after that, mostly because I didn’t trust her not to burn the place again. She claimed it was because she didn’t want to owe me favors.
But I noticed that she liked the way I stood close behind her. She liked it when I teased her about her knife skills, or when my breath brushed her neck as I reached for something on the shelf above her. She pretended she didn’t, but her scent told the truth.
Sometimes, when she turned too fast, we ended up too close with her chest against mine and her eyes flicking down to my lips before she looked away again. Every time, I had to force myself not to grab her and show her exactly what she did to me.
One evening, I cooked dinner myself. She hovered at the edge of the kitchen, pretending not to care. Watching her eat stirred something darkly possessive in me. When she reached for her glass, I caught her wrist midair, thumb brushing the pulse point there.
Her eyes flew up to mine.
“You’re thinking too much,” I murmured.
“Am I?”
“Yes.” I leaned in closer, voice dropping to a whisper. “You should just enjoy it.”
Her pulse spiked beneath my touch.
I smiled. “There it is.”
“There, what is?”
“Your tell,” I said softly, releasing her. “Your heartbeat gives you away every time.”
She scoffed, pretending to focus on her food, but her hands trembled slightly.
Sometimes I’d catch her watching me when she thought I wasn’t looking. When I stretched after a sparring session, or when I was shirtless near the lake. She’d look for a heartbeat too long before forcing her gaze away.
She was fighting the bond. I admired the hell out of her for it.
But I was losing my mind.
Every night, I’d lie awake, her scent crawling through my veins, and wonder how the hell I was supposed to survive this without snapping.
- Writer
