Wolvenmark - The Forbidden Mate

Chapter 9 : Dominance and Defiance II

Chapter 9 : Dominance and Defiance II

Al’s POV

“Okay, I’m sorry!” I called after him, laughing as I jogged to catch up. Ruby was moving like a storm—long strides, ears practically steaming with frustration. The flush across his cheeks made me grin; part of me wanted to apologize properly, the other part selfishly wanted to see how far I could push him. Maybe I shouldn’t have yanked the plug on his computer, but damn, his reaction was worth the trouble.

He jabbed the elevator button with that dramatic force of his, a look that said the world had personally offended him. When the doors sighed open, he stepped in like a man on a mission—no glances back, no mercy. I slipped in just before the metal lips closed, the space suddenly small and charged with the aftermath of our little war.

“Let me take you out for dinner,” I said, leaning casually against the cool metal panel, trying to keep my voice light. I meant it. I wanted to smooth things over—and maybe snag another night where he couldn’t glare at me for a full twenty-four hours.

“No. I’m going home,” he replied, arms crossed, the tone clipped and final. He still wouldn’t meet my eyes.

I exaggerated a sigh. “Let me make it up to you. I’m really sorry.”

“No,” he said again, firmer. “Even if I wasn’t mad, I still wouldn’t go. We’ve been going out a lot this week.” He turned his head now, brows arched in emphasis, like he’d just delivered the final word on a subject of national importance.

“No, we haven’t,” I protested, though my brain did a quick inventory. Okay, yeah—maybe four nights in one week was frequent. But to me it didn’t count as “a lot.” “I mean, yeah, we did, but that’s irrelevant. Let’s go again.”

He gave me that look—equal parts exasperation and something that could be mistaken for fondness. “I said no. My working hours are over, which means you can’t boss me around anymore.”

I couldn’t help the little burst of admiration that flared up. The man had nerve. It was almost impressive. And infuriating. All at once.

The elevator pinged and the doors opened on the thirty-second floor. Two women slipped in, chattering about a client meeting. Ruby shifted a hair closer to me automatically, ears reddening the slightest bit. He kept his gaze glued to the floor, deliberately avoiding me like a noble would avoid stepping on a sacred tile. I smirked but kept quiet—why give him the satisfaction?

When we hit the lobby, the doors sighed open, and I moved before he could. Sliding in front of him, I planted myself like a human barricade. The two women, perfectly positioned, flowed around us like the sea parting; he couldn’t shove past without creating a scene. I loved the look on his face when he realized his exit had been intercepted.

He tried to step around me; I didn’t budge. “Oh my gosh, I can’t believe you,” he muttered, shaking his head.

“Told you, everything goes my way,” I crowed, winking. “So next time, don’t even try to oppose me.”

“Whatever.” His eyes rolled, but he didn’t move. The moment the women drifted onward, I grabbed his wrist, my grip light but firm, and began towing him toward the parking garage.

“Hey! Let go!” he protested, voice pitched between indignation and amusement. I tightened my grip.

“Not a chance,” I said, because I wasn’t.

He fussed and fidgeted, a handful of dramatic protests that only made me laugh. His stubbornness was one of those things that kept me entertained—like a fire that popped and spat every time you poked it.

By the time we reached the car, I practically threw the passenger door open and guided him in with a theatrical flourish.

“Ouch!” he yelped, rubbing his arm. “I’m not a damn plushie!”

I slid into the driver’s seat, the interior smelling faintly of leather and something woody. “Sorry,” I said with a smirk. “That’s what you get for misbehaving.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize this was all my fault!” he shot back, sarcasm thick in his tone.

“Glad you understand.” I turned the key and the engine rumbled awake, an obedient beast.

He muttered, “Freak you,” under his breath as we eased out of the garage, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him—there was the ghost of a smile.

The first stretch of the drive was polite silence: the city lights smeared into streaks through the windows, and the radio murmured something about late-night traffic. He stared out at the passing blur, jaw working thoughtfully. The tension in his shoulders had softened, but there was still a tension beneath the surface, like a knot he couldn’t quite unpick.

After a few minutes of unrelated thought, he looked over with a kind of dry mischief. “I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s news of a missing CEO tomorrow.”

I blinked, then laughed. “Why?”

He shrugged, casual like a shrug can dispel a sudden dramatic declaration. “I don’t know. Someone might disappear tonight. Who knows what I can do?”

My grin stretched slow and wicked. “Who knows what kind of creature I am?” I countered, voice low and teasing. “Don’t even try me, baby.”

He made a face at the nickname and the suggestion, like I’d put something sour in his mouth. “Ew,” he said, nearly choking on the word as he turned his head away so fast his hair swooped like a curtain.

I laughed out loud then, the sound bright in the small space of the car. The city slid past us, neon bleeding into rainless night. For all the back-and-forth, the little power plays and impossible exasperations, the ride home felt oddly domestic—two people who’d accidentally learned the rhythm of one another’s annoyances.

And for the first time that night, I let myself think maybe the tug between us wasn’t all trouble. Maybe it was the beginning of something messy and complicated and worth the fuss.

The rest of the drive fell into a strange, taut silence, the kind that hums just below the ears and makes every small sound feel louder than it should. City lights smeared past the windows in streaks of amber and white, throwing brief, stuttering shadows across his face.

He wasn’t frowning anymore; he wasn’t sulking. Instead, there was a stillness to him that felt more deliberate — as if he were cataloguing me with the same attention he’d give a hard-to-read contract. It put me on edge in a way I hadn’t expected.

I stole a glance at him. His profile was outlined against the streetlight, jaw set, eyes distant. There was something quietly predatory about the way he watched — not cruel, but calculating, patient. For the first time that night, I felt less like the instigator of mischief and more like someone under study. The thought made a mischievous part of me perk up; the rest of me tightened.

When the car eased into the restaurant’s parking lot, he didn’t move. He just sat there, body relaxed but unmoving, as if the engines and neon and the world outside were showing without telling him what to do. I sighed and threw the door open. “So you want to do this the hard way, huh?”

He didn’t flinch, didn’t even look at me. I closed the distance in two strides, swung the passenger door wide, and yanked his seatbelt with the practiced force of someone who’d wrestled with stubborn straps their whole life. Before he had time to object, I scooped him up off the seat in a half-lift, half-twist—the kind of ridiculous, impulsive move friends do when they’re stupid and soft with each other.

"Put me down!" he struggled, wriggling like a fish on a line. His hands fumbled at my arms, but I held him like he weighed nothing and everything.

I dumped him back onto his feet with a theatrical flourish. "You love playing, huh?"

He scowled as he smoothed his shirt. "Haha, funny. What the hell is wrong with you?"

I just shrugged, grin wide, and grabbed his hand. “Slow down!” he whined, but I didn’t slow. I liked being the chaos he couldn’t order with a calendar invite. It felt dangerously good.

Inside, the restaurant glowed with low light and murmured conversations. The hum of other people’s dinners seemed ordinary, domestic — a background soundtrack to what should have been a normal, cozy meal. Except our dinner never settled into normal. He ate like a man with his mind on a meeting: precise, efficient, eyes mostly on his plate. He didn’t reach for my hand, didn’t share some private joke. He simply ate, and the cutlery clinked in a rhythm that sounded painfully adult and grown-up.

Guilt gnawed at my ribs between bites. Had I taken it too far back at the office? Had the plug— the theatrics— been cruel rather than funny? My fingers toyed with a napkin until I finally broke the silence on the walk back to the car.

"Hey… are you mad?"

He didn’t answer. He stood by the car, hands in his pockets, watching the glow of the lot pools on the asphalt like they were small moons. The elevator of the parking garage hissed, and someone laughed inside it. The quiet seemed to stretch, and my apology felt thin.

I locked the doors with my key and stayed outside, refusing to climb in until I had something more than silence. "Talk to me. I’m sorry."

He looked at me then, not with anger, not with the storm I’d expected, but with that cryptic warmth that had been simmering since the office. "Why aren’t you starting the car?"

"Why aren’t you talking to me?"

"Why would I?"

I exhaled, an annoyed little sound. "You’re mad. I get it. I’m sorry."

And he did the thing that made my skin ripple — he curled his mouth into that slow, eerie smile, like a puzzle piece falling into place in a room I hadn’t been invited into. "What?" I asked, unease prickling against my voice.

"Nothing." He shook his head, the smile lingering too long at the corner of his lips. "I just… I know now."

"Know what?"

"Nothing. Stop asking and drive."

I narrowed my eyes at him, but there was something in the tilt of his head, the way his jaw flexed, that told me this wasn’t about the coffee or the computer at all. It was something under the surface — a recognition, a memory, a thought he wasn’t ready to say aloud.

I slid behind the wheel, started the engine, and drove him home. The ride was quiet but charged, like the moment before rain hits hot pavement. When we arrived, I popped the door for him, the streetlight catching the sweat at his temple in a small silver sheen.

"I’m really sorry," I said softly, because silence had shaped itself into something heavy between us.

He stepped out and turned to me with the same cryptic smile. "It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I understand you now. I’ve memorized everything."

A shiver ran up my spine that had nothing to do with the night air. "What do you mean?"

He tilted his head, eyes reflecting some private amusement. "Nothing. Just that… I get it now." He started to walk away, but then added over his shoulder with a practiced, almost casual kindness, "Take care. Text me when you get home. Stay safe."

He melted into the building’s shadows before I had time to gather my thoughts. The words hung in the parking lot: memorized, understood. I sat in the car, the engine ticking as it cooled, thinking over each syllable until they had teeth.

Instead of driving straight home, my hands steered without thinking toward the dark ribbon of pines outside the city. The woods felt like the only place big enough for the questions crowding my head. I needed someone blunt and steady—Shadow, Stone, anyone who could translate whatever this was into something that made sense.

Tonight had slid open a door I hadn’t known was there, and I didn’t want to walk through it alone.