THE ALPHA'S KILLER TURN LOVER

Chapter 4

Zain

“Hey!” I call again, louder this time, pushing through the low branches. She’s already vanished into the thicket, red hair flashing like fire before the leaves swallow her.

I stop at the edge of the orchard row. Half the farmhands are frozen mid-reach, baskets dangling, mouths open as they stare.

Two guards hover close behind me, rifles slung but alert. The girl must have fled because of the guards. She thinks I've come to take her way?

But why? I spoke with her yesterday and I liked the things she said about wines and apples. She's an unusual, learned farmhand. She's rare.

Come on, I just want to talk again.

“Clear out,” I tell the guards quietly. “Give us space.”

They hesitate for a second not sure if they want to leave me alone, before retreating. I turn to the workers.

“Show’s over. Back to the apples,” I announce.

They scatter like startled birds, pretending sudden fascination with their ladders and crates. I can’t help the small grin that tugs at my mouth. Did I really scare the girl that badly? Yesterday she’d laughed softly at the jokes I said about the hay bales. Today she bolts like I’m the devil himself.

Amused, I duck into the thicket after her. The branches tug at my shirt, but I move quietly; years of roaming these same rows as a boy make it easy. I spot her almost immediately. She's crouching low, and crawling away on hands and knees, trying to put trees between us.

I step lightly, reach down, and catch one slim ankle. She gasps, jerking, but I tug gently until she slides back across the dark soil toward me.

“Easy,” I murmur. “It’s just me.”

I release her foot the instant she stops struggling. She scrambles to sit, back against a tree trunk, knees drawn up. Her eyes are huge and green, they're bright, and absolutely terrified. Fear rolls off her in waves so thick I can almost taste it on the air.

Why?

Yesterday she met my gaze without flinching. Today she looks at me like I’m seconds from tearing her throat out.

I crouch slowly so we’re eye level, careful not to crowd her. Up close, she’s even more striking than my memory allows. Sunlight filters through the leaves and catches in her thick red hair, turning it to living flames.

Gosh, she's so lovely to look at. I sigh, my groin aching at the sight of such a pretty creature. I'm sure now she was the one I dreamed about last night.

Her lips are parted just enough to show the edge of perfect white teeth; her skin glows with a healthy peachy color. The rise and fall of her chest presses against the thin fabric of her blouse, and for a dangerous second my gaze lingers there.

Heat flashes through me, sudden and restless. I force my eyes back to her face, swallowing hard again. I’ve thought about this girl nonstop since yesterday—her quiet laugh, the way she tucked a stray curl behind her ear, the stubborn tilt of her chin when she insisted on lifting the bale herself.

I lower myself all the way to the ground, sitting cross-legged on the cool black earth like I did when I was ten and hiding from chores.

She blinks at my crossed legs, confusion cutting through the fear.

“You shouldn’t sit in the dirt,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re the Alpha.”

I smile. “I spent half my childhood in this dirt. My father made me work the orchards every summer, said it would keep me humble.” I shrug. “I loved it. Still do.”

A shadow crosses her face quickly in that instant, it was raw anger that flashes in her eyes before she looks away. For one heartbeat it feels like loathing and guilt. Then it’s gone, hidden behind lowered lashes.

“I never asked your name yesterday,” I say.

“Zara,” she answers, still not meeting my eyes.

“Zara,” I repeat, tasting it. It fits her perfectly.

She glances at me. “Do you like being Alpha?”

I exhale a short laugh. “I do. Or I will, once things settle. Right now it’s . . .” I search for the word. “Complicated. My father left a long shadow. A lot of people expect me to be just like him.”

“You should be you."

I gaze at her for sometime, thinking about the simplicity of what she just asked me to do: be myself.

“Great advice," I reply. “But that's not an easy thing to be if you hardly know who you are.”

She frowns, leaning forward slightly as if I'd said something outlandish. She sighs and looks away.

"What else can we be if not us?” she asks without looking at me. "It's easier if we aren't poor people.”

"You think it costs money to be who we are?"

She nods. “No one questions what you do then. No one questions that you are sitting on the floor, in the dirt. They think it's cute. When you're poor, they think that's where you're supposed to be.”

"The story of our lives, huh.”

"My life, not yours, alpha,” she says tersely.

Her fingers tighten around a fallen apple in her lap.

“Did you love him?” she asks, her voice suddenly tight.

I open my mouth to answer—yes, no, it’s complicated—but Ramos’s heavy footsteps crunch through the leaves before I can speak.

“Alpha,” he calls, stopping a respectful distance away. His gaze spots Zara, then back to me. “We’ve got something on the assassin. Prints came back partial, but the blade’s maker is local. We’re narrowing it down.”

Zara’s head snaps up. For the briefest second, that same flash of anger, loathing and pain crosses her face again, all braided together so tightly I almost step back.

Then she ducks her head, red hair falling like a curtain to hide her expression.

But I saw it.