The Alpha Under The Mistletoe

8: Refusal And Recognition

Aaron's POV

Maeve stared at me like I’d insulted her ancestors.

“You deaf?” Maeve said. “I told you to get out.”

Her voice was rough now. Not shouting anymore. The anger was still there but it wasn’t doing all the work alone. I noticed that before I wanted to.

“I heard you,” I said.

“Then move.”

I didn’t.

Not because I wanted to challenge her. Not because I thought standing my ground meant something. I stayed because the room felt unfinished. Because walking out right now would be clean, and nothing about this was clean.

“There’s still a risk,” I said. “Whoever sent those orders didn’t expect the men to pull out. They don’t like loose ends.”

She scoffed. “So now you’re my security briefing?”

“I’m telling you why I’m still here.”

She turned away from me then, hands on the counter, shoulders tight. For a second I thought she might throw something else. Instead she swore under her breath and reached for the torn edge of her shirt.

Blood had soaked through it. Dark, tacky. She tugged it up without ceremony, like she’d done this a hundred times and didn’t care who saw.

I looked away on instinct.

Not because I was shy. Because it felt wrong to watch.

“Don’t,” she snapped.

I paused.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t act like this is new to you,” she said. “You already saw everything else. Don’t pretend this is where you suddenly grow manners.”

I looked back then.

And my breath caught before I could stop it.

Her shirt came off over her head in one clean motion. No hesitation. No pause. She tossed it aside like it was trash.

Her body wasn’t delicate. It was solid. Built. The kind of body that carried strength and stubbornness like armor. Her breasts filled her bra, full and heavy, contained but undeniable. Real. Not posed, not offered, not sexualized, just entirely hers. Every line spoke of muscle beneath soft curves, work and endurance, not vanity.

And the scars.

That was what held me.

One along her ribs, uneven, old. Another near her shoulder where the skin had healed rough. Marks that didn’t come from accidents. Marks that meant she’d fought for space in the world and paid for it.

She didn’t try to cover herself.

Didn’t cross her arms. Didn’t flinch.

She grabbed a clean cloth and pressed it to her side, jaw clenched.

“You’re bleeding more than you think,” I said.

She didn’t look at me. “I’ve had worse.”

“I’m sure,” I replied. “Doesn’t make this nothing.”

She glanced up then. And our eyes locked.

Not long. Not soft.

A stare like a challenge thrown across a table.

Her eyes were sharp, dark, too alive for someone who’d just had their life torn open before breakfast. There was pain in them, yes. Rage. Exhaustion. But underneath all of it was something steadier.

Defiance.

She wasn’t waiting for help.

She was daring the world to try again.

Something twisted low in my chest. Not desire. Not ownership. Recognition.

This woman didn’t survive because someone protected her.

She survived because she refused to fall.

“You done accessing me?” she asked.

“No,” I said honestly.

Her mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something close to irritation.

“Figures.”

She tied the cloth tight with one hand. Her fingers shook now. Just a little. The crash finally catching up.

She leaned back against the counter like it didn’t matter. Like she wasn’t seconds away from sitting down whether she wanted to or not.

“You should sit,” I said.

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Then I’ll say this,” I replied. “You shouldn’t stitch that alone.”

She laughed, short and humorless. “You planning to hold my hand?”

“No.”

She studied me again. Slower this time. Like she was trying to place me somewhere that made sense.

“I’m not asking for your help,” she said.

“I know.”

“Then why are you still standing there?”

Because leaving feels like another lie, I thought.

I didn’t say it.

“Because I won’t pretend this ends with an apology,” I said instead. “And because I won’t leave you alone with people who already tried once.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“No,” I agreed. “You do.”

She pushed off the counter and stepped closer. Close enough that I could smell the iron on her skin, the faint trace of smoke and meat and effort, the faint tang of sweat from exertion.

She tilted her head up to look at me. Didn’t lower her gaze. Didn’t look away.

“This land is mine,” she said quietly. “My body. My work. My mistakes. You don’t get to stay just because you feel bad.”

I swallowed.

“This isn’t about guilt.”

“Then what is it about?” she challenged.

I held her gaze. Let her see that I wasn’t flinching. That I wasn’t backing down, but I wasn’t pushing either.

“It’s about fixing what was done in my name,” I said. “Even if you never forgive me.”

Silence sat between us.

Not empty.

She stepped back first. Not defeated. Just done with the stare.

She grabbed another shirt from a chair and pulled it on, slower now. Careful around her ribs. When she moved, I noticed how tired she really was. How the fight was the only thing holding her upright.

“You can stay,” she said finally. “For now.”

I waited.

“Outside,” she added. “You don’t sleep here. You don’t touch anything. You don’t give orders unless I ask.”

“That’s fair.”

She snorted. “No, it’s not. But it’s what you’re getting.”

I nodded once.

She walked past me toward the door, then paused. Didn’t turn around.

“And don’t look at me like that again.”

I frowned slightly. “Like what?”

She hesitated.

Then she glanced back.

“Like you’re trying to figure me out.”

Our eyes met again.