Bewitching the Alpha

CHAPTER 2: First Sight

I was following Guilermo. He was prowling; I was struggling. He moved through the dense undergrowth with an insulting lack of effort, the heavy muscles of his back shifting beneath his dark shirt like tectonic plates. He didn’t look back to see if I was keeping up. He knew I was. Predators always knew where everything was in their territory.

We broke through the final line of trees, and the main compound sprawled out before us properly this time. From the edge of the woods earlier, I had seen the structures. Now, walking through the center of it, I felt the sheer weight of the life here.

It was an assault on the senses.

The Coven of Whispers was a place of silence. We moved in hushed corridors; we spoke in riddles; we touched only when necessary for a ritual. Contact was a transaction.

Here, contact was a language.

I walked past a group of four men wrestling near a massive fire pit. It wasn’t a fight; it was play, but it was violent. The sound of flesh hitting flesh, the grunts of exertion, the smell of sweat and woodsmoke it hung heavy in the damp air. One of them, a brute with a scar running through his eyebrow, looked up as I passed. He didn’t blink. He tracked me, his nostrils flaring, inhaling my scent.

I tightened my coat, burying my chin in my scarf. I felt like a porcelain doll walking through a demolition site.

"Keep up," Guilermo’s voice drifted back to me. He was already ascending the steps of the main house.

I hurried after him, ignoring the stares that pricked at my skin like needles.

The interior of the Pack House was warm. Suffocatingly so. A massive stone fireplace dominated the main hall, the flames licking at logs the size of grown men. The furniture was oversized—leather couches that looked distressed from years of claws and boots, heavy timber tables scarred with knife marks.

And the noise. It vibrated in the floorboards.

"Alpha!"

A young woman bounded into the room. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen, her energy frantic and bright. She nearly collided with Guilermo, stopping only inches from his chest. In the Coven, interrupting an Elder meant punishment. Here, Guilermo didn’t even flinch.

"Report, Kaelie," he said, not stopping, forcing her to walk backward to match his stride.

"South is clear. The hunting party brought down three elks. And Marco broke the generator again trying to fix the fridge."

"Tell Marco if he breaks it again, he’s eating raw meat for a week," Guilermo said, his voice flat.

"Got it! Who’s the witch?" Kaelie’s eyes snapped to me, wide and uncomfortably curious. Her pupils were blown wide, black swallowing the brown.

"The repair crew," Guilermo said, pushing open a set of double doors at the end of the hall. "Out, Kaelie."

The girl offered me a grin that was all teeth before darting away.

We entered his office, and the sudden silence was jarring.

The room was vast, smelling of old paper, gun oil, and that pervasive scent of pine and rain that seemed to emanate from Guilermo himself. One wall was entirely glass, looking out over the chaotic yard I had just walked through. The other walls were lined with maps, not digital screens, but physical, topographic maps pinned with colored markers.

Guilermo walked around a massive oak desk but didn’t sit. He leaned against the edge of it, crossing his arms over his chest. The posture stretched the fabric of his henley tight across his shoulders.

"Close the door," he commanded.

I pushed the heavy wood shut, the click of the latch echoing in the room. I stayed near the door. My instincts were screaming at me to keep the exit clear.

"You look like you’re waiting for an execution," Guilermo observed. He picked up a glass from his desk, filled with an amber liquid, and took a drink. He didn’t offer me one.

"I’m waiting for instructions," I corrected, keeping my voice steady. "Elder Sibal said the northern wards were failing. I need to see the anchor points."

Guilermo set the glass down. The sound was sharp.

"Sibal says a lot of things," he rumbled. "He says the wards are failing because of age. I say they’re failing because your Coven builds them cheap."

"We use standard containment weaves," I defended, my hackles rising. "If they’re failing, it’s because your wolves are testing the boundaries. Bumping against the cage weakens the bars."

Guilermo’s eyes narrowed. The gold in them seemed to liquefy, swirling with a faint, inner light. He pushed off the desk and took a step toward me.

"Cage?" he repeated softly.

The air in the room grew heavy. It wasn’t a metaphor. The atmospheric pressure dropped, popping my ears. This was Alpha aura, a weaponized charisma that forced submission. My knees wobbled, a biological imperative to kneel before a predator.

I locked my legs. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper, using the pain to ground myself. I was a witch of the Firmin line. I did not kneel to dogs.

"A figure of speech," I managed to say, though my voice was tighter than I liked.

He stopped three feet from me. Too close. I could feel the heat radiating off him. I could see the individual silver hairs mixed into the black at his temples. I could see the pulse beating steadily in the hollow of his throat.

"Let’s get one thing straight, Lilura Firmin," he said. His voice was low, vibrating in my chest cavity. "This is not a cage. It is a fortress. And the only reason we tolerate your magic on our land is because the Treaty mandates it. If the Hollows spill over into my territory because your 'containment weaves' are weak, I won’t send a complaint to the Council."

He leaned down slightly, bringing his face level with mine. The scent of him hit me like a physical blow. It made my head spin. It made the runic markings on my ribs burn with a sudden, confused heat.

"I will come to your glass house," he whispered, "and I will break every window."

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, staccato rhythm. Fear? Yes. But beneath the fear, there was something else. A hum. A static charge that pricked at my fingertips. My magic was reacting to him. It wasn't retreating; it was reaching out. It wanted to touch the source of that immense pressure.

I clenched my hands into fists, digging my nails into my palms to stifle the flow.

"Is that a threat, Alpha?" I asked, looking him dead in the eye. "Because threatening a Coven representative violates Section 4 of the Treaty."

He stared at me for a long beat. The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring. I saw his gaze flick down to my mouth, then back up to my eyes. A flicker of something unreadable passed through his expression.

Then, he laughed.

It was a dry, humorless sound. He stepped back, the crushing pressure of his aura receding instantly, leaving me gasping for air.

"It’s a promise," he said, turning back to his desk. "But you can call it a motivational speech."

He grabbed a rolled-up map and tossed it toward me. I caught it reflexively, clutching it to my chest.

"That marks the three failing anchor points," he said, sitting down in his leather chair. He looked suddenly tired, the aggression draining out of him to reveal a weary irritation. "Start with the furthest one near the ridge. It’s bleeding magic. My scouts say the shadows are moving wrong over there."

I gripped the map, my fingers trembling slightly. I needed to get out of this room. The air was too thick with him.

"I need access," I said. "The wards won't open for me without a key. I need a drop of your blood to resonate the frequency."

Guilermo paused. He looked at his hand, then opened a drawer and pulled out a small, silver knife.

"Come here."

I hesitated.

"I don't bite," he said, not looking up. "Unless I have to."

I walked to the desk, placing the map down. He held his hand out, palm up. His hand was massive, the skin calloused and scarred. A roadmap of violence.

He sliced the tip of his thumb with a casual efficiency that made my stomach turn. A bead of dark, crimson blood welled up.

"Take it," he commanded.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small glass vial. I uncorked it, my movements efficient, practiced. I held the vial under his thumb, catching the drop.

As the heavy droplet hit the glass, his finger brushed against mine.

A spark, blue and violent, arced between our skin.

I jerked my hand back with a gasp, nearly dropping the vial. Guilermo hissed, recoiling as if he’d been burned.

We stared at each other.

The air in the room smelled suddenly of ozone. The sharp, electric scent of a lightning strike.

Guilermo rubbed his thumb, his eyes wide, the gold burning bright. "What the hell was that?"

I stared at the vial in my hand, my heart racing so fast I thought I might pass out. That wasn't normal static. That was feedback. That was what happened when two opposing magical currents slammed into each other with zero resistance.

"Static," I lied, my voice breathless. "It’s dry in here."

"It’s pouring rain outside," he countered, his gaze intense, searching my face. "That wasn't static."

"It happens," I said quickly, corking the vial and shoving it into my pocket. "High concentration of magic. It creates... friction."

"Friction," he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue like a curse.

He looked at his hand again, then at me. The look he gave me wasn't the predator looking at prey anymore. It was the look of a man who had just found a bomb in his living room and wasn't sure which wire to cut.

"Go fix the wards, Witch," he said, his voice rough. "Before you set my office on fire."

I didn't argue. I grabbed the map and turned on my heel, walking out of the office with as much dignity as I could muster.

I managed to keep my pace measured until I was out the front door and down the porch steps. Then, I practically ran toward the tree line, needing to put distance between myself and the man with the golden eyes.

But even as the cold rain hit my face, I could still feel the ghost of his touch on my finger. A burn. A brand.

It terrified me.

Because for a split second, when that spark had arced between us, I hadn't felt fear. I hadn't felt the cold drain of the Coven or the crushing weight of duty.

I had felt alive.

And that was the most dangerous thing of all.