Chapter 2
1207 Words
Beyonce's [PO]
Stepping into White Raven's was like entering a time machine. The cream-cinnamon reception desk greeted me, adorned with a vintage multi-colored glass lamp that casts a warm glow over its surface. Against the wall stood a majestic grandfather clock, its pendulum swinging back and forth in a steady rhythm.
The white walls, matching the externals of the house, were adorned with dark red curtains that surrounded the arched windows. In the opposite corner of the room, a lit fireplace emanated a comforting warmth, its flickering flames dancing in the hearth. The love seats, with cream upholstery and dark wooden trim, encircled the fire, inviting me to sink into their plush cushions. It was a paradise that transcended time.
Except for the middle-aged Beta woman who's staring up at me from the desk, her mouth open in shock. Just like that, my insecurities bubble to the surface. She's looking at the tattoo.
She's looking at my tattoo, the mottled purple tattoo that starts from my shoulder and drags down my hand. No one had ever openly
gazed at me like this before, but I didn't
have time to put on something to cover it
.
"Hello?" she breathes, her voice more a
question than a greeting.
But I won't let this strange woman make
my night any worse.
No, I'm here to take care of myself.
"Hi, I greet her, placing a grin on my face,
hiding the despair that threatens to rise to
the surface. Stare at me all you want; you
won't ruin this for me.
"I have a reservation under Beyonce Sawyer."
The room I booked, despite it being the
cheapest still costs a fortune.
I can't wait to see it, though. I'm looking
forward to the awning king-sized bed and reading nook that overlooks the property.
I just need to spend the next week in
solitude, relaxing in luxury.
"Beyonce?" the Beta woman repeats, her
grey eyebrows crinkled.
"Sawyer?"
I stare at her for a moment in silence, the only sound the faint swaying of the clock's pendulum.
Either this woman has the worst social
skills in the world, or I'm losing my mind.
"Yes," I say slowly, opening my purse to take out my wallet. I hand her my identification card and credit card.
"Here."
She takes both and examines them, turning
them over incredulously.
I stand there awkwardly as she stares at
my cards for far too long and then finally
turns to the sleek desktop computer.
Electronics look out of place from the rest
of the room, breaking the illusion that I'm
in the early twentieth century.
As she stares at her screen, her face only grows more anxious.
I frock on my feet, uncomfortable.
"Is something wrong?" I finally clamor out,
and she stops to glance at me.
Finally, her face evens out and she sighs.
"No, Miss Beyonce, there's not," she says
carefully.
"But if you'll excuse me a moment, I will be right back."
I'm even more puzzled as she stands and
leaves the room, walking towards the fireplace and turning a corner.
She leaves me alone with the clock and
the crackle of the logs as my only companions.
I try not to panic.
Maybe there's something wrong with my
card. Maybe they don't have a room for
me.
Where will I go, then?
A muffled male voice sounds above me,
followed by the voice of the Beta woman behind the counter.
Then, the voices are silent.
The clock chimes so loudly I jump.
It's midnight. And I'm exhausted.
I want to rest in the canopy bed. I want to
bury me under the covers and not
resurface for a week.
Sighing, I walk to the inviting loveseat and
sink into the cushions, letting the warmth
of the fireplace wash over me.
Please let there be a room.
The woman is gone for a ridiculously long
time and as I wait, I focus my gaze out
the window, staring into the darkness.
He won't find me here.
He can't.
I took my laptop with me and he didn't
have the login to my bank account.
Which is what started our fight in the first
place and what put the outline of his handprint on my cheek.
So please, for the love of God, just let
there be...
"Miss Beyonce?" a low voice asks, and |
jolt out of my half-asleep state. I turn my
head, following the voice, and...
Oh.
Holy hell.
The woman from earlier is nowhere to be
found. Instead, she's been replaced by a
pale, bleach-blonde Alpha, with
cheekbones so high and a jawline so
sharp it's ridiculous.
His icy blue eyes are piercing, and he
COcks an eyebrow as he stares at me
from the front of the room.
Jolting up out of the loveseat, I move my
hair out of my eyes and face him.
"Yes?" I ask, careful not to let him know how he
affects me.
He takes a step closer, and it takes all my
willpower not to cower. Dressed in a black button-up and fitted black trousers, he looks like the devil.
Every instinct in me screams to run away,
but I'm frozen in a mixture of fear and
curiosity.
His full lips pull up into a smirk and a
chill runs down my spine.
He's looking at me like I'm prey which is
ridiculous and inappropriate.
I'm a Beta. With my light brown hair and
brown eyes, there's nothing about me
physically that stands out unless you
count the pink line that cuts down my
face.
It's not a very attractive feature.
Alphas rarely flirt with Betas. They're too
occupied with their Omegas and are
usually part of a pack.
His behavior towards me is not normal at all.
He takes another step forward, his low
voice murmuring something, but I'm
hypnotized by a rush of pepper and citrus.
His scent.
God, when was the last time I've smelled
an Alpha?
Even to Betas, their aroma is heavenly,
and goosebumps prick at my arms as he
floods my senses.
He's f*****g mouthwatering.
Back to reality, Beyonce, I chide myself.
It's midnight, I'm exhausted, and I still
haven't even seen my room.
And when he takes another step towards
me, the fireplace illuminating the icy hue
of his eyes, I flinch back with fear.
His smirk disappears, and his lips form
into a thin line as I crane my neck to look up at him.
"We're upgrading you" he mutters, and I frown at his sudden mood change.
He says "upgrade" like it's a dirty word, but
I'm too tired to question his attitude. And more than a little frightened.
Weakly, I nod, hoping he'll leave so a woman can finish helping me. But I have no such luck, instead, he reaches out, motioning towards my suitcase, and I take another step away from him, nearly losing my balance.
I don't feel safe with this man.
I don't feel safe with any man right now.
And he must sense it because he looks
at me curiously.
"Something the matter?" he asks quietly.
His brow furrows as he stares at my face,
at the stupid scar.
Does no one in White Raven's know how to be subtle?
- Writer
