The Alpha's forbidden contract

Vision In The Dark

Isabella Vega’s hands trembled as she pushed the cleaning cart back to the staff room, the echo of Jaxon Creed’s growl still ringing in her ears. You’re not ready for the truth. His words from the library, paired with the sketch of her face in his journal, had left her reeling. The wolf painting’s glowing eyes haunted her, their amber gaze burned into her memory, stirring that restless, clawing feeling in her chest. It wasn’t just fear or adrenaline, it was something alive, something that felt like it belonged to this mansion, to Jaxon.

The staff room was empty, the fluorescent light flickering overhead. Her shift had ended at midnight, but the encounter with Jaxon and the mysterious figure in the hallway had kept her on edge, delaying her cleanup. It was nearly 2 a.m. now, the mansion silent except for the distant crash of waves beyond the glass walls. She sank onto a metal bench, her uniform damp with sweat, and pulled her sketchbook from her bag. Drawing always steadied her, a tether to the artist she used to be before hospital bills stole her dreams.

Her pencil moved instinctively, sketching the wolf from the painting, its snarling muzzle, its eyes that seemed to see her soul. But as she shaded the fur, the lines shifted, forming a man’s silhouette..tall, broad, with Jaxon’s sharp jaw and piercing gaze. Her breath caught. She hadn’t meant to draw him, but there he was, staring back from the page, his eyes holding the same hunger she’d seen in the library. Her skin flushed, remembering how close he’d stood, his hand grazing her wrist, his scent

...sandalwood and wildness...pulling her in.

“Get a grip, Isa,” she whispered, slamming the sketchbook shut. He was her boss, a billionaire with secrets darker than she could fathom. And yet, her body didn’t care about warnings. It wanted to know why he’d drawn her, why his touch had felt like fire, why her chest ached with something that wasn’t human.

A soft creak made her jump. The staff room door was ajar, though she swore she’d closed it. She stood, her heart pounding, and peered into the hallway. Empty, but the air felt heavy, like someone was watching. The wolf painting loomed at the far end, its eyes glinting in the dim light. She shook her head, blaming exhaustion, and grabbed her bag. She needed to get home, to her mother’s tiny apartment, to sleep off this madness.

But as she stepped into the corridor, a low hum vibrated through her, like a chord struck deep inside. Her vision blurred, and the hallway seemed to shift, the walls melting into a moonlit forest. Wolves howled in the distance, their cries sharp and mournful. She stumbled, catching herself against the wall, her fingers brushing the painting. The canvas was warm, pulsing under her touch, and her sketchbook fell, pages splaying open to her drawing of Jaxon.

“Isabella!” Jaxon’s voice snapped her back, sharp and urgent. She blinked, the forest gone, the hallway solid again. He stood at the end of the corridor, his black shirt unbuttoned further now, revealing a glimpse of tanned muscle. His gray eyes burned, not with anger, but something fiercer...worry, maybe, or fear.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, closing the distance in long strides. He stopped inches away, his presence overwhelming, the heat of him making her dizzy. “I told you to go home.”

“I...I was,” she stammered, her voice shaky. Her sketchbook lay open at her feet, Jaxon’s face staring up from the page. His gaze flicked to it, and his jaw tightened, a muscle ticking in his cheek.

“You saw something,” he said, not a question. His voice was low, almost a growl, and he stepped closer, so close she could feel his breath on her skin. “What did you see?”

Her mouth went dry, the vision’s afterimage lingering, wolves, moonlight, a forest that felt real. “I don’t know,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “A forest. Wolves. It was... like a dream, but not.”

His eyes darkened, and for a moment, she swore they flashed gold, like the painting’s. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said, but his hand lifted, hovering near her cheek, as if he wanted to touch her but didn’t trust himself. “You’re not safe.”

“Safe from what?” she asked, her voice sharper now, fueled by frustration and something reckless. “From you? From whatever you’re hiding? I saw my face in your journal, Jaxon. Why?”

His hand dropped, and he stepped back, the air between them crackling. “You don’t understand what you’re asking,” he said, his voice rough. “That journal, this place, it’s not your world.”

“Then why draw me?” she pressed, stepping closer, closing the gap he’d made. Her heart pounded, but she couldn’t stop. His presence pulled her, like a tide she couldn’t fight. “Why call someone a mate? What are you?”

He froze, his eyes locked on hers, and the clawing in her chest surged, sharp and wild. She gasped, clutching her shirt, the sensation so intense it felt like her ribs would c***k. Jaxon’s hand shot out, steadying her, his grip firm on her arm. His touch was electric, sending heat racing through her, and she swore she heard a low growl, not from him, but from inside her.

“Stop fighting it,” he said, his voice softer now, almost tender. “You’re waking something you don’t understand.”

“Fighting what?” she snapped, pulling free, though her skin burned where he’d touched her. “You talk in riddles. Tell me the truth, or I walk out and don’t come back.”

His lips curved, a half-smile that was more dangerous than amused. “You won’t walk away,” he said, his voice low, certain. “You feel it too.”

Her breath hitched. He was right... damn him, he was right. The pull between them, the way her body answered his nearness, was undeniable. But she wasn’t some lovesick girl chasing a billionaire’s charm. She was here for her mother, for survival. And yet, standing this close, his eyes boring into hers, survival felt like a distant excuse.

Before she could respond, a sharp laugh cut through the silence. Scarlett stepped from the shadows, her red hair catching the light like fire. “Well, isn’t this cozy,” she said, her voice dripping with venom. Her green eyes flicked between them, lingering on Jaxon’s hand, still hovering near Isabella’s arm. “Sneaking around after hours, Vega? Not a good look for a maid.”

Isabella’s cheeks burned, but she held Scarlett’s gaze. “I was finishing my shift. Not that it’s your business.”

Scarlett’s smile was cold. “Everything in this house is my business. Especially when it involves him.” She tilted her head toward Jaxon, her tone possessive in a way that made Isabella’s stomach twist.

“Enough, Scarlett,” Jaxon said, his voice sharp. “Go. I’ll handle this.”

Scarlett’s jaw tightened, but she obeyed, shooting Isabella a glare that promised trouble before vanishing down the hall. The tension didn’t ease with her gone, it thickened, wrapping around Isabella and Jaxon like a storm.

“You need to leave,” Jaxon said, his voice low, but he didn’t move, his eyes still locked on hers. “Before you see something you can’t unsee.”

“Too late,” she said, her voice trembling but defiant. She bent to pick up her sketchbook, her fingers brushing the drawing of him. The vision flashed again, wolves circling, their howls echoing, and Jaxon’s silhouette under a blood-red moon. She gasped, dropping the sketchbook, her vision clearing to find Jaxon staring at her, his expression unreadable.

“What did you see?” he asked again, his voice urgent, almost desperate.

“Wolves,” she whispered, her throat tight. “You. In a forest. It’s like... my art is showing me things.”

He cursed under his breath, running a hand through his dark hair. “You’re not supposed to be part of this,” he said, more to himself than to her. “Not yet.”

“Part of what?” she demanded, stepping closer, her fear giving way to anger. “Stop hiding things from me, Jaxon. I deserve to know.”

He looked at her, his eyes flashing gold again, and this time she was sure. “You’re not ready,” he said, but his voice cracked, betraying something...pain, maybe, or longing. “But you’re already in too deep.”

Before she could press further, a low growl echoed from the hallway...not human, not animal, but something in between. Jaxon’s head snapped toward the sound, his body tensing like a predator. “Stay behind me,” he ordered, his voice a command that brooked no argument.

He moved toward the sound, and Isabella followed, her pulse racing. The hallway was dark, the wolf painting’s eyes glowing brighter, almost pulsing. At the far end, a figure stood, a man, tall and blond, with a cruel smile. Damon, the man from Jaxon’s argument. His eyes locked on Isabella, and a chill ran through her, the clawing in her chest roaring to life.

“Well, well,” Damon said, his voice smooth and taunting. “Is this the one, Creed? Your little maid’s got more to her than meets the eye.”

Jaxon stepped in front of Isabella, his body a shield, his voice a low growl. “Leave her out of this, Matthew.”

Damon’s smile widened, and his eyes...gold, like Jaxon’s had been, flashed with menace. “Too late, alpha. She’s already chosen.”

The clawing in Isabella’s chest exploded, a searing pain that dropped her to her knees. Her vision blurred, the forest returning, wolves howling, and Jaxon’s voice calling her name as darkness closed in.