Mesmerised by the Alpha

Chapter 3. Wildest Dreams

The suitcase let out a soft thud as I unzipped it, the fabric protesting slightly from the overstuffed contents. I hadn’t packed much—just enough to get by—but it still felt strange, pulling out folded jumpers and jeans and stacking them neatly into drawers that weren’t mine. Not yet, anyway.

I paused, fingers brushing the worn edge of an envelope tucked between two shirts. I knew what it was without looking. The photos were dog-eared from years of being handled, creased at the corners where I’d traced her face more times than I could count.

I sat on the edge of the bed, peeled the flap open, and slid them into my lap.

My mother smiled up at me from the top photograph—radiant, windswept, laughing at something just out of frame. It was one of those rare moments someone else had captured. Not posed. Not polished. Just real. The kind of happiness you don’t realise is fleeting until it’s gone.

I pressed my thumb against the image, trying to hold something that wasn’t there anymore.

God, it still hurt. Grief didn’t fade like everyone said. It just learned how to wait. Quietly. Patiently. Until it caught you off guard, like now—on the edge of a strange bed in a half-haunted hotel, with the scent of pine and old paper curling through the air.

I wiped the corner of my eye and tucked the envelope into the drawer, deep beneath my clothes. Not to forget—just to breathe.

A knock at the wall made me glance up, half-expecting it to be Nate checking on the radiator or offering some smart remark about settling in. He hadn’t knocked, of course. But the thought of him lingered.

There was something about him—rough around the edges, sure, but charming in that disarmingly confident way. He was funny, but not performative. And those eyes—sunlit, despite the gloom of the place. Like he didn’t quite belong here, yet fit into it all the same.

Also, it had to be said: ridiculously hot.

I smiled to myself, shook my head, and stood. No time to develop a crush on the handyman—not when I still didn’t know what exactly I’d signed up for.

Still, the idea of drinks downstairs didn’t sound so bad. Maybe it was exactly what I needed. A little distraction. A bit of normal.

And maybe—just maybe—some answers.

I crossed to the wardrobe and hung up a few dresses, my fingers lingering on a lightweight cardigan that had definitely seen better days. Glancing at what was left in my suitcase, it hit me how unprepared I was for a full summer here. I’d packed like I was staying for a long weekend, not three months.

The letter from the agency had been vague on details, and between the grief and the whirlwind of decision-making, I hadn’t thought too far ahead. But now, standing in this half-lit room surrounded by pine trees and peeling wallpaper, it was clear—I’d need more clothes. Lighter ones. Nicer ones. Maybe even something that didn’t scream “mourning chic.”

I made a mental note to ask Nate or one of the others about the nearest town. Somewhere I could grab a few essentials. Maybe even get a proper coffee.

That was, if this place even had a nearby town.

Sighing, I shut the wardrobe door gently behind me. One thing at a time. First, a quick nap. The long drive had taken the wind out of me, and my body was screaming for some rest! Then a shower to freshen up before the welcome drinks.

I walked over to the bed and sat down heavily, my body grateful for the stillness after the long drive. The mattress dipped beneath me with a luxurious sigh—soft, inviting, like it had been waiting just for me. I let out a breath I didn’t realise I’d been holding, the weight of the day settling into my limbs. The room, with its vintage charm and forest views, already felt oddly like a sanctuary.

I reached for my phone, thumbed in a forty-five-minute alarm, and placed it gently on the nightstand. Just enough time to recharge without missing the welcome drinks. I peeled back the duvet and sank underneath it, curling onto my side. The blankets were warm and smelled faintly of lavender and cotton—comforting and clean.

I lay there listening to the breeze outside, soft and rhythmic through the pines. My eyelids grew heavier with each breath, the long journey finally catching up with me. My hair still felt limp and tangled from being up all day, and I made a mental note to wash it when I got up—God knows it had seen better days.

Sleep came quickly.

In my dream, I was back in the forest, only this time it was different—brighter, almost glowing, as if bathed in a golden hour that never ended. The wildflowers around my feet shimmered, their colours surreal. I walked barefoot, the earth warm and springy beneath my soles. There was no sound but the whisper of the wind.

Then I saw him again—the black wolf.

He emerged from between the trees, silent and graceful, with eyes like liquid silver. I didn’t flinch. Instead, I stepped closer, and he let me. He stood still as I reached out, his breath gentle against my wrist. My fingers slipped into his fur—thick, warm, like touching a living night sky. I could feel his heart beneath my palm. Strangely, I wasn’t afraid.

I felt… safe.

Then, abruptly, the buzz of my alarm dragged me out of the dream and back to reality. My eyes flew open, and I sat up, heart thudding, the room now tinted with the soft amber of evening light. It had felt like a ten-minute nap, but the clock told me nearly an hour had passed.

I groaned and rolled out of bed, stretching the stiffness from my arms before heading into the en suite.

The shower steamed up quickly, filling the small bathroom with a humid warmth. I stepped beneath the spray and let the water rush over me, hot and cleansing. I tilted my head back, letting it soak through my hair and run down my back. The sensation was instantly reviving, washing away the remnants of sleep, travel, and forest dreams.

As the water pounded softly on my shoulders, my thoughts wandered back to the wolf. Why had I dreamt of him again? And why did he feel familiar? It wasn’t just a dream. I’d felt his breath, the softness of his fur, the quiet awareness in his eyes. Dreams weren’t usually so vivid, and certainly not comforting.

There had been no fear—only recognition. Like I knew him. Or he knew me.

I pressed my forehead on the cool tiles for a moment, letting the water run down my spine. It was ridiculous, wasn’t it? Dreaming of a wild animal like it was some kind of protector. But still… something in me ached at the memory of it. Not fear. Longing.

With a deep breath, I shook the thoughts off and reached for the shampoo.

Afterwards, I towelled off and wiped a circle into the misted mirror. My reflection stared back—cheeks flushed, eyes still a little heavy-lidded from the nap. People had always said I looked like Snow White. Big, bright blue eyes. Full lips. Skin like porcelain. My hair, long and black as ink, curled slightly at the ends from the steam, though I’d be straightening it down for tonight.

It was a look I’d learned to live with, though sometimes I wished for a little less... storybook. Still, I planned on getting a proper tan this summer. Maybe then I’d look more like someone who spent her time in the real world and less like I should be singing to woodland creatures.

I straightened my hair, added a touch of makeup—just enough to feel polished—and pulled on an off-the-shoulder red sweater and jeans. The sweater brought out the pink in my cheeks, and the fit was just right: comfortable but confident.

My stomach growled, loud and unladylike. I laughed to myself. I hadn’t eaten since a breakfast bar in the car around 8am.

Food. Company. A new start.

Tonight couldn’t come fast enough.