Alphas' Indecent Proposal

Chapter 6

Kate's POV

My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I was sure he could hear it.

The closet door was already cracked open—just an inch, but an inch was enough.

My brain short-circuited through a dozen terrible options before landing on the lingerie set I'd impulse-ordered during a late-night livestream. I grabbed Ronald's arm, and I have no idea how I managed to sound calm—coy, even—when every cell in my body was screaming.

"Let me keep your birthday surprise a secret, babe." I tugged him back gently, forcing a bashful smile. "I think the perfume the seller sprayed on it was too strong—that's probably what set Mochi off."

Ronald turned to me, his eyes lighting up. "Wait—is it the kind of surprise I'm thinking of?"

He'd hinted at it enough times. Wear something bold for me, baby. Something that shows off what's mine.

His mind went exactly where I needed it to go.

"Mm-hm." I rose onto my toes, cupped his face, and kissed him—not softly, not sweetly, but with the kind of desperate, open-mouthed urgency that made his hand slip off the closet handle and land on my waist instead.

Ronald stumbled backward. His fingers slid under the hem of my shirt, trailing heat across my skin, and I let out a breath I'd been holding for what felt like a full minute.

Through the narrowing gap, I caught a single dark eye watching us—steady, unblinking—before the closet door clicked shut and sealed Darius back into the shadows.

Thank God.

But Ronald was lit now. The kiss had flipped a switch I hadn't meant to flip, and his hands were everywhere—my waist, my ribs, skating up to palm my breast through the thin cotton of my bra. I tried to sit up, tried to create space, but he read resistance as enthusiasm and pressed closer, his weight pinning me into the mattress.

I had not forgotten that a six-foot-three Alpha operative was folded into my wardrobe three feet away.

I did not have an audience kink. I really, truly did not.

"Ronald—stop." The word came out breathy, ruined by the moan that followed it.

"Stop?" He nipped at my collarbone, voice rough. "You started this, sweetheart. You can't light a fire and then ask it to behave."

My face burned. My body was betraying me in every possible direction—flushed, trembling, far too responsive for someone trying to shut this down. I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed for divine intervention.

Divine intervention arrived in the form of my ringtone.

It blared from the living room—shrill, relentless, the kind of call that screamed pick up or I'll call again. Ronald groaned against my neck, then pulled away with a muttered curse and went to find the source.

I collapsed against the pillows, chest heaving.

The second Ronald cleared the doorway, the closet door clicked open. Darius unfolded himself in one fluid motion, his gaze sweeping the room—clinical, efficient—and then it landed on me.

He paused.

Just for a beat. Just long enough for his eyes to register my flushed skin, my rumpled shirt, the rapid rise and fall of my chest.

Then he moved—silent as smoke—and was gone.

I yanked my shirt straight with shaking hands.

What was that look?

Before I could spiral, Ronald reappeared with my phone. "It's yours, babe. Been going off nonstop."

I answered. The voice on the other end was smooth, unhurried, and laced with barely concealed amusement—Damon, doing a flawless impression of a demanding corporate superior.

I killed the screen and swallowed hard. "That was my office. They found me a flight—tonight, to Boston. I have to leave soon."

"Tonight?" Ronald's brow furrowed. "Already?"

But he didn't push. He never pushed. He just sighed, kissed my forehead, and launched into a familiar rant about how Voss Capital worked me to the bone while simultaneously assuring me he'd always support my career.

He packed my suitcase for me. Folded my sweaters the way I liked.

Two hours later, I stood on the curb with my luggage, watching his silhouette disappear behind the apartment door. Then I climbed into the car idling two blocks away.

Damon sat behind the wheel, grinning like he'd just watched the season finale of a reality show.

"I have to hand it to you, Kate." He waited until I clicked my seatbelt before speaking, his voice warm with barely suppressed laughter. "Watching you simultaneously distract your husband and smuggle another man out of the bedroom—if I didn't know the full context, I'd be genuinely confused about who exactly we're investigating for infidelity here."

"Shut up, Damon."

I turned away, but my cheeks were on fire—because Darius hadn't installed a camera inside the bedroom, but the hallway camera's angle caught the bed perfectly. Which meant Damon had seen everything. The kiss. The groping. The sounds I'd made.

All of it. Broadcast live to the entire surveillance team.

"Relax." Damon shifted gears smoothly, his tone gentling. "Everything captured under the agreement is confidential. Besides, that was you and your legal husband—perfectly within your rights." A beat. "If it makes you feel better, Damian will have a far worse time watching his fiancée with someone else."

The apartment was gorgeous—a bigger, brighter version of everything I'd dreamed my home could be. Warm wood tones, bold jewel-toned accents that somehow didn't clash, and furniture I'd bookmarked a hundred times but could never afford.

"I like it," I murmured, running my fingers along the velvet sofa.

"Good." Damon set my bags down and headed for the door. "The TV in the living room connects to the surveillance feed. Get some rest, Kate."

I slept like the dead.

The first day of my fake business trip passed in blissful, guilty peace. I sketched interior designs at the sunlit desk, ate food from a fully stocked fridge, and tried not to think about the fact that my entire life had become a lie.

At dusk, my phone buzzed. The screen read: Ronnie ❤️

I answered, and the smile that spread across my face required no acting at all.

"Hey, sweetheart."

"Hey, baby." Ronald's face filled the screen—warm eyes, worried brow. "You settled in okay? Have you eaten? Promise me you're taking care of yourself."

A lump rose in my throat. I'd watched the surveillance feed on and off all day. Ronald had woken up on time, gone to work, come home—completely, boringly normal.

This was the man they were accusing?

"I'm fine. I just miss you."

"I miss you more. Get some rest tonight, okay? I love you."

"I love you too."

I ended the call. Guilt and relief crashed into each other inside my chest—a nauseating cocktail that tasted a lot like he's innocent and I'm a terrible wife.

"Tch."

The sound—sharp, derisive—came from behind me.

I whipped around.

Damian Voss was leaning against the entryway wall, arms crossed, those glacier-blue eyes catching the dim light like something predatory. The temperature in the room plummeted. His Alpha presence flooded the space—salt water and storm clouds, heavy and suffocating and so overwhelmingly dominant that my wolf, muted as she was, stirred restlessly somewhere deep in my belly.

Why was he here?

"Touching." His voice dropped to a frequency that scraped across my skin like sandpaper. He pushed off the wall and stalked toward me. "That's all it takes to keep you compliant? A few sweet nothings?"

"I don't recall asking for your opinion."

"Words are free, intern." Damian stopped close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. His jaw ticked. "Performance doesn't cost a thing. He's maintaining an image."

"He's my husband." I stood, stepping into his space until I was inches from his tailored lapel. "And he knows how to treat a partner—which is more than I can say for you, Mr. Voss."

Something dark shifted behind his eyes. "Watch your mouth."

"Why? Because the truth stings?" My chest heaved. "Ronald has basic human decency. Something you clearly—"

"Ahem."

Darius's low, gravelly voice sliced through the charged air like a blade.

I hadn't even noticed him—or Damon, who was still lingering by the front door. Darius was already seated in front of the TV, the surveillance grid glowing across the screen. He didn't look at us. He just raised one hand and pointed at Camera 3.

"Not trying to interrupt your... dispute." His tone was flat, unbothered. "But you might want to see this."

Damian and I both snapped our attention to the screen.

The live feed showed my apartment's front door swinging open. Ronald stepped inside—alone.

But cradled in his arms was an enormous bouquet of deep red roses, lush and extravagant, the kind that cost more than my weekly grocery budget.

And he wasn't heading to bed the way he'd promised me on the phone.

He was setting a scene.