The Alpha's Naughty Christmas

6: Good Girls Hide Their Fire

Zolani’s POV

My head spun like I had chugged a bottle of cheap tequila on an empty stomach, and my heart, poor overworked bastard, was pounding so loudly I swore the portraits on the walls could hear it.

I had always heard stories about werewolves and their wild, savage ways. The full-moon orgies. The blood feuds settled with teeth. The way they claimed mates like property and f****d like the world was ending.

But hearing it from Aradia over late-night pizza was one thing.

Seeing it was another.

Walking into a room reeking of fresh death. Staring at Cassian Blackthorne painted in someone else’s blood.

He had killed a man.

Casually.

For stealing from my suitcase.

What the hell could a guard possibly want from my beat-up luggage? I didn’t pack diamonds or cash. My most expensive item was a twenty-dollar vibrator hidden in a sock because Evan would have fainted if he found it.

So what was it? Panties? My ratty bras?

The idea that some wolf had been sniffing around my unmentionables to steal something should have disgusted me.

Instead, a twisted, dark heat pooled low in my belly at the thought that Cassian had ended a life over it.

I should have been terrified. Screaming. Calling the human police or whatever the f**k existed for werewolf crimes. I was a good Catholic girl. Well, lapsed, but still.

We believed in laws. Trials. Forgiveness. Thou shalt not kill and all that jazz.

But here, in this frozen fortress of old money and older violence, Cassian Blackthorne was not just a man.

He was the law.

The tyrant.

The Alpha who ruled with blood and fear and a body built for sin.

Infamous did not cover it. Whispers followed him like shadows. Rivals vanished. Borders were redrawn in crimson. Entire packs knelt or died.

He killed without mercy.

Or remorse.

And instead of running, I was lusting after him so hard my thighs were slick again.

What the f**k was wrong with me?

A tiny, wrinkled servant appeared at my elbow like a ghost. Gray hair pulled into a severe bun. Eyes sharp despite her age.

She bowed low, the movement practiced and deferential.

“Miss, this will be your room.”

She opened a heavy door at the end of the hall, revealing a suite that could have housed a small village. A massive four-poster bed draped in furs. A fireplace already roaring. Windows overlooking snow-choked mountains that looked like teeth against the sky.

My ruined suitcase sat in the corner like a crime scene souvenir.

I hoped my vibrator was still hidden. And yeah. It had been cleaned.

“I’ll have new clothes delivered at once,” she continued. “Bathe, dress, and join us for dinner when you’re ready.”

She turned to leave, then paused, glancing back with something that looked almost like pity.

“That…” She pointed a gnarled finger at the enormous double doors across the hall. Black wood carved with snarling wolves. Iron handles shaped like claws. “That is the Alpha’s bedroom. Best to stay away, miss. You’re human, so…”

She trailed off, letting the warning hang.

Humans break easy.

Humans don’t survive Alphas in rut.

Humans don’t come back from that bed unchanged.

Humans should stay away from an Alpha with almost zero tolerance for anything.

Yep. I got it.

I forced my widest, most innocent smile. The one that got me out of confession half the time.

“I understand, ma’am. Completely.”

She nodded, satisfied, and shuffled away.

The door clicked shut behind me.

I leaned against it, slid down until my ass hit the rug, and let out a laugh that sounded half hysterical and half turned on.

Stay away?

From the man who had just murdered someone for touching my suitcase and looked at me like he wanted to lick the blood off his dagger before shoving the handle inside me?

Good f*****g luck.

I stripped on my way to the bathroom. Jeans. Sweater. Bra. Tossed aside like evidence.

The mirror showed flushed cheeks. Wild eyes. n*****s so hard they hurt. A p***y that glistened like I had already been f****d twice.

I turned the shower to scalding and stepped under the spray.

The water pressure was criminal. Multiple heads pounding my skin like a thousand rough hands.

I braced one palm against the marble wall, head dropping forward, and let the heat hammer my shoulders while my other hand slid between my legs without permission.

One touch and I whimpered.

I was swollen. Sensitive. Dripping.

I circled my c**t slowly at first, teasing, imagining Cassian’s blood-smeared fingers instead of mine. Rough. Huge. Unforgiving.

“Little human,” his voice echoed in my head, low and lethal. “You think you can hide how wet you get for blood?”

I plunged two fingers inside myself, gasping at the stretch.

Not enough. Never enough.

I added a third, f*****g myself hard, palm grinding my c**t, water sluicing down my body like his tongue would.

I pictured him storming in. Ripping the glass door off its hinges. Pinning me face-first to the tile with one hand around my throat while he shoved those trousers down and…

“f**k,” I moaned, hips bucking. “Daddy…”

The orgasm hit fast and vicious. Legs shaking. p***y clenching around my fingers like it was trying to trap them forever.

I sagged against the wall, panting, water still pounding.

But it was not enough.

The ache was deeper now. Hungrier.

I toweled off slowly, skin still tingling from the shower’s brutal massage. Every drop of water felt like a teasing finger tracing paths I wished were rougher. Darker.

The robe waiting on the hook was obscene. Thick. Plush. Black as sin. Heavier than my winter coat back home and soft enough to make me want to rub my naked body all over it like a cat in heat.

I wrapped it around myself, cinched the belt tight, and padded barefoot to the bed.

Someone had already laid out clothes.

Silk. Lace. Labels in French and Italian I could not pronounce if my life depended on it.

A black dress. Low-cut enough to make a nun faint. A thigh-slit that screamed bend me over and find out what’s missing.

And no panties.

Of course.

Whoever the servant was had probably heard me moaning like a porn star in the shower, fingers buried deep while I pictured Cassian’s blood-smeared hands instead of mine.

The thought sent fresh heat pooling between my legs.

God. Did they report that s**t straight to the Alpha?

“Sir, the human guest is m**********g to your murder scene again.”

“This can’t f*****g continue,” I muttered, dropping the robe and struggling into the dress.

The silk slithered over my skin like a lover’s tongue, clinging to every curve. The neckline plunged so deep my breasts nearly spilled out with every breath. The slit rode high enough that if I bent even slightly, someone would get a full view of how bare and wet I still was.

“What damn hormones are these?” I grumbled. “Demon possession? Full-moon fever without the moon?”

I stormed to the full-length mirror, ready to fix whatever mess the shower had made of my hair.

One look and my hand flew to my head.

I tugged once. Then again.

The black wig came off in my fingers like a lie I had worn too long.

Deep red hair tumbled down my back in wild waves, fiery and untamed, catching the firelight.

I stared.

Really stared.

Evan’s voice echoed first. Sharp. Dismissive.

“Too bright. Too attention-seeking. Cover it up, Zolani. You look like a w***e trying to get noticed.”

Mom came next. Shrill and furious.

“Go cut off that demonic hair. It’s a mark of sin. God didn’t make good girls with devil’s fire on their heads.”

Dad’s disgusted huff followed.

“So ugly. Like something switched at birth. Hide it before someone sees and thinks we raised a freak.”

I had learned early.

The red hair was not beautiful. It was wrong. Shameful. Something to bury under black dye that never quite took. Under expensive wigs that cost more than rent. Under rules and prayers and good-girl smiles.

No one knew.

Not even Aradia, who had seen me naked in dorm showers a hundred times.

I had mastered quick changes. Excuses. Bad hair days.

Mom used to swear that if she had not pushed me out herself, she would think the hospital had swapped me for some changeling spawn.

I touched a strand now. Soft. Warm. Curling around my finger like it had a mind of its own.

For one stupid, reckless second, I imagined leaving it down.

Walking into dinner with fire spilling over my shoulders. Daring every wolf in the room to look.

Daring him to look.

The fantasy made my p***y clench hard enough to hurt.

But I shoved it down where all the bad thoughts lived and slid the wig back on, adjusting until the black waves fell perfect and boring.

I painted on the fake smile I had practiced since I was twelve.

Sweet. Obedient. Invisible.

“You are a good Catholic girl, Zolani,” I whispered to my reflection, voice steady even as my hands shook. “Your family’s pride. You have a fiancé who loves you. Safe, gentle Evan who waits like a saint.”

“Control it. It’s just a few days here.”

“You’ll be back in his arms. Back to quiet brunches and Sunday mass.”

“And no one will ever know how filthy your head really is.”

“Be a good girl. For God. For family. For Evan.”

The words tasted like ash.

I smoothed the dress one last time and took a breath that did nothing to calm the storm between my legs.

Then I opened the door.

The hallway was empty, but that dark, spiced scent lingered. Dinner waited downstairs.

And somewhere in this house, Cassian Blackthorne was cleaning blood off his hands, probably thinking about how easy it would be to put them on me next.

Only if he even thought of me.

I walked toward the stairs. Hips swaying in that dangerous slit. Wig perfect.

Fire hidden.

Good girls hide the fire.

That’s what good girls do.