BOUND TO THE BULLIES

9 | Played by the Manipulator

Darcy

I didn't sleep.

I spent the entire night sitting upright in bed, staring at the connecting door. I had wedged a heavy armchair under the handle on my side, but I knew it was symbolic. If Damon wanted to come in, a piece of velvet furniture wouldn't stop an Alpha.

But he didn't come in.

He just paced. For hours, I heard his heavy footsteps on the other side. Back and forth. Back and forth. Like a predator in a cage.

Now, morning light filters through the heavy silk curtains. It’s 7:17 AM.

Dinner is at eight. Don't be late. Ronan hates tardiness.

I assume the rule applies to breakfast too.

I shower quickly in the main bathroom (locking both doors twice), dress in my wrinkled uniform—which looks ridiculous in this mansion—and force myself to leave the room.

The house is silent. It’s a tomb of marble and gold.

I follow the smell of coffee. Rich, dark roast coffee. It leads me down the grand staircase and into a kitchen that is larger than the school cafeteria.

There is no sign of Damon. Or Amos. Or Ronan.

Just Alastair.

He is sitting at the massive granite island, reading a newspaper on a tablet. He looks infuriatingly perfect. Crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hair perfectly styled. He looks like a young CEO, not a high school bully.

He doesn't look up when I enter.

"7:58," he says calmly. "Punctual. I appreciate that."

I stand in the doorway, hugging my arms. "Where are the others?"

"Ronan is on a run. He needs to... burn off some aggression," Alastair says, turning a page on his screen. "Damon is asleep. And Amos is somewhere brooding, I imagine."

He finally looks up. He smiles. It’s a terrifyingly gentle smile.

"Sit, Darcy. Coffee?"

He gestures to a steaming mug waiting on the counter. Beside it, a plate with fresh pastries.

My stomach growls, betraying me. I walk over cautiously and sit on the barstool furthest from him.

"Why are you doing this?" I ask, staring at the coffee. "Last week you paid a freshman to put gum in my hair. Now you’re serving me breakfast?"

Alastair sighs. He takes off his glasses and cleans them with a silk cloth. The movement makes him look vulnerable. Human.

"We were wrong," he says softy.

I blink. "What?"

"We were wrong about you," Alastair continues. "We were raised to believe certain things, Darcy. Our fathers... the Pack Elders... they told us your family was poison. That your mother was a traitor who stole from the Pack funds and ran away."

I stiffen. "My mother was a saint. She died working two jobs to feed me."

"I know that now," Alastair says, his voice dripping with regret. "Or at least, I suspect it. The bond... the Moon Goddess doesn't make mistakes. If she paired us with you, it means our fathers lied. It means we’ve been punishing an innocent girl for crimes she didn't commit."

He slides the plate of pastries closer to me.

"I can't speak for Ronan," he murmurs. "He is... stubborn. But I want to start over. I want to understand."

I look at him. I want to hate him. I *should* hate him. But his words touch a wound inside me. All I ever wanted was for the bullying to stop. To be seen.

"You really mean that?" I whisper.

"I do."

Alastair stands up. He walks around the island.

My heart speeds up, but I don't run. He stops right next to me.

"You have something on your lip," he says softly.

He reaches out.

I freeze. His thumb brushes the corner of my mouth.

ZAP.

The spark is instantaneous. It’s not a static shock; it’s a jolt of pure electricity that travels straight from my lip to my core. My breath hitches. My n*****s harden against the fabric of my cheap shirt.

Alastair freezes too. His pupils dilute instantly, swallowing the iris.

He doesn't pull away. He leans in.

"Do you feel that?" he whispers. His voice is no longer polite. It’s rough. Hunger laces every syllable.

"It’s just the bond," I gasp, trying to lean back, but the counter traps me.

Alastair steps between my legs. He isn't touching me anywhere else, just his thumb on my lip, but the heat of his body surrounds me.

"Just the bond?" he mocks softly. He traces the line of my lower lip, dragging it down slightly. "You hate me, Darcy. Your mind wants to run. But your body?"

He leans down, his mouth hovering millimeters from mine. I can smell the mint and coffee on his breath. I should push him away. Why aren't my hands moving?

"Your body is begging me to kiss you," he murmurs. "I can smell your arousal. It’s sweeter than the pastries."

"Stop," I whimper. But it sounds like a plea for more.

"Tell me to stop," Alastair challenges. "Use the Voice. Command me. Make me kneel again."

He knows I can't. I’m too drained. Too confused. And God help me, the spark feels too good after years of loneliness.

"That's what I thought," Alastair smirks. The mask of the "nice guy" slips, revealing the predator beneath.

He grips my waist. His hands are large, possessive.

"Don't trust your mind, Darcy," he whispers against my lips. "Trust this."

He closes the distance.

But before his lips can touch mine, the kitchen door bangs open.

"Get your hands off her, Lockwood."

Ronan stands in the doorway. He is shirtless, covered in sweat and dirt from his run. And he looks ready to murder.