Conquered By The Blind Alpha

The Nice Woman

ALLE

It was a relief to be out of the dress I'd been wearing for days, and even more relief that I could relieve myself after days of holding it in and running on anger fumes to keep me going.

The water runs cold before I finally step out of the not so complicated yet fancy mechanism that was the shower.

I've scrubbed my skin raw, trying to wash away the feel of his fingers on my wrist, the memory of his voice in my ear, the phantom heat of his body pinning me against the floor.

It doesn't work.

Nothing f*****g works.

I dry off with a towel that's softer than anything I've ever owned, and I hate that I notice. Hate that my traitorous body relaxes into the luxury even as my mind screams at me to stay alert, stay angry, stay ready.

I mean...my pack isn't struggling, or broke but then agaij, our castle was the only sensible inheritance we got from our ancestors seeing as the leaders that came before me--my father included--ran the pack down to its last dollar and left us severely underdeveloped.

I'd learnt from their mistakes long before I became old enough to voice out the fact that I wanted to be Alpha.

I was 8 when I told my father.

The closet reveals clothes I didn't see before—dark jeans that look like they'll fit perfectly, soft sweaters in muted colors, undergarments still in goddamn packaging.

My jaw clenches.

Someone—him—thought about what I'd need to wear beneath my clothes. Picked them out. Ordered them. Made sure they'd be here waiting.

The intimacy of it makes my skin crawl and my fists ball at my sides.

Now why the f**k would he do that for a prisoner?

I dress quickly, teeth grinding together as I refuse to acknowledge how well everything fits. How the jeans hug my hips like they were made for me. How the black sweater is warm without being suffocating.

He knows my f*****g size.

The thought sits heavy in my chest, invasive and wrong and I spend a full ten minutes breathing in deeply just to hold in my anger.

I turn my attention to the room instead, examining it with clearer eyes now that I'm clean and somewhat fed. It's larger than I initially thought, vaulted ceilings and those floor-to-ceiling windows that show nothing but darkness and my own reflection staring back.

But it's the details that snag my attention and won't let go.

Claw marks on one of the bedposts. Deep gouges that someone tried to sand down but didn't quite erase. A faded stain on the wooden floor near the window that looks suspiciously like blood—old and set into the grain despite clear attempts to scrub it away.

This was a child's room.

Winter's childhood room.

Something uncomfortable twists in my chest, sharp and unwelcome. What kind of childhood leaves claw marks on furniture? What kind of kid bleeds on their bedroom floor?

I think of my own childhood—my father's firm but fair hand, my mother's gentle guidance, Clarisse and I getting into s**t and laughing our way out of it.

I shove the thoughts away, nails digging into my palms.

I don't care about Winter Draven's tragic f*****g backstory.

I don't.

Everyone has a tragic backstory, Winter has managed to become the villain of mine.

The sudden sound of a soft knock makes me tense up and my head turns abruptly in the direction of the door.

Freda enters with another tray, this one laden with what smells like an actual meal. Her brown eyes are warm, her smile genuine enough that I find myself relaxing slightly despite every instinct screaming not to trust anyone in this goddamn place.

"I thought you might be hungry for something more substantial," she offers, setting the tray on the small table.

I cross my arms over my chest. "Why are you being nice to me?"

The question comes out harsher than I mean it to, but I don't take it back.

Freda doesn't flinch, just meets my glare head-on. "Because you look like you need it."

"I don't need s**t from you people!" I spat, watching as her expression shifted between confusion and discomfort before finally settling on something she probably thinks is neutral, but isn't.

The woman is like an open book, her every emotion displayed in her eyes, on her face.

"No," she agrees easily, no heat in her tone. "But I'm offering anyway."

I want to throw her kindness back in her face. Want to maintain the walls, the anger, the clear f*****g lines between prisoner and captor and remind her just how sick this entire situation is.

But a wave of exhaustion that seemed to have accumulated over the course of the past few days hit me like a ton of bricks and my limbs feel even heavier, if that's possible.

My shoulders sag before I can stop them.

"How long have you known him?" I bite out, moving to sit at the table because standing feels like too much effort. "Winter."

Freda's smile falters. "Most of my life. Since I was young."

"And this place?" I gesture around us, the movement sharp. "What is it exactly?"

"One of our fifteen pack houses." She says it like it's normal. Like having fifteen pack houses is something every Alpha does.

My mind f*****g stutters, again.

"The Draven Pack is... extensive. Over two hundred thousand members across multiple territories," She explained in a soft voice that seemed to be her normal lilt.

The bread I'm holding for slips from my fingers, hits the plate with a dull thunk.

Two hundred thousand...people?

My pack—my pack that I'd been so f*****g proud of, that I'd built up to over ten thousand strong—is nothing compared to that. A drop in an ocean.

"How?" The word scrapes out of my throat like sandpaper, my mind still finding it rather overwhelming, as an Alpha myself...I cannot imagine the enormity of such a responsibility.

Freda settles into the chair across from me, her expression careful, measured. "Winter united smaller packs over the years. Gave them protection, resources, structure they didn't have before," Freda voiced rather proudly.

It all finally clicked.

A Conqueror.

That's what we called Alphas like him who were always so greedy and never satisfied with the power they already had. Always wanting more, always killing and destroying for more territories.

"United." I taste the word, find it bitter as ash. "Is that what you call it? Because what he did to mine looked a hell of a lot more like destruction."

Her face shifts, discomfort flickering across her features before she schools them.

Good.

She should be uncomfortable.

"I don't know the details of what happened with your pack," she murmurs, her voice dropping. "I just know that Winter is—"

"A monster?" I supply, my lips pulling back from my teeth.

"Complicated."

I laugh, the sound sharp and humorless as it ripped from me, scraping against the silence. "That's one f*****g word for it."

Freda stands, smooths her hands over her jeans in a nervous gesture that makes her seem younger than she probably is. "Is there anything specific you need? Any dietary restrictions or preferences I should know about?"

"You don't have to be nice to me." I repeated, my voice colder than the previous time. She was getting on my nerves or rather, it was getting on my f*****g nerves that she wasn't.

Does that make sense?

"I'm not being nice because I have to." Her voice is gentle, genuine enough to make my chest tighten. "I'm being nice because I want to, Alle." She finished with a look that said she wasn't one to pretend, despite the obvious fact that she probably had a marshmallow heart.

The sincerity in her tone catches me off guard.

I look away first, jaw working. "I'm fine."

"I'll bring breakfast in the morning then." With that said, she takes a step back, and then another, giving me one last smile before turning around.

After she leaves, I eat in silence.

The food is good—too good. Rich and flavorful and clearly made by someone who gives a s**t about cooking. It makes me think of pack dinners back home, of Clarisse stealing food off my plate when she thought I wasn't looking, of Jerome's terrible jokes that somehow always made us laugh anyway.

Clarisse would have liked the interior of this estate.

She's always had an eye for these sort of things.

The thought hits me like a fist to the ribs, unexpected grief burning behind my eyes as the food on my tongue instantly turned tasteless.

Clarisse would have liked Freda also. Would have probably befriended her within a day, made her laugh within an hour.

Clarisse would have—

But Clarisse is dead.

My fingers tighten around my fork until my knuckles go white.

Burned alive while I lay paralyzed on the grass, useless and weak and unable to do a goddamn thing to save her.

I shove the plate away, my appetite gone, my throat tight.

The guilt is suffocating. A physical weight crushing my chest that makes it hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to be anything other than f*****g furious at myself.

I'm here. Eating expensive food in my enemy's childhood bedroom. Wearing clothes he provided. Taking showers in his bathroom. Being nice to his friend who tries to justify what he did.

While she's ash.

While my pack is scattered or dead.

While everything I built and fixed crumbles without me.

I stand abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor, needing to move, needing to do something other than sit here drowning in my own failures.

The door is unlocked when I test it.

I pause, hand on the handle, waiting for someone to stop me. For an alarm to sound. For Winter's cold voice to order me back inside like the prisoner I am.

Nothing.

The hallway beyond is empty, lit by moonlight streaming through tall windows that line one side. The estate is silent, beautiful in a cold and oppressive way that makes my skin prickle with unease.

I step out anyway.

Take one step, then another, moving quietly down the corridor.

Fuck it. If I'm going to be trapped here, I'm at least going to know the layout of my cage.

I make it maybe twenty feet before a voice drawls from the shadows to my left, deep and unfamiliar and laced with amusement:

"Well, well. Winter's little mate, wandering free already."

I freeze, every muscle in my body coiling tight, ready to fight even though my wolf is still suppressed somewhere deep inside.

A figure detaches itself from the darkness—tall and lean with blonde hair that catches the moonlight like he's stepped out of some f****d up fairy tale.

His smile is sharp, predatory, far too knowing.

Blue eyes gleam with something dark as they rake over me.

"This should be fun."