The Prisoned Alpha

Chapter 6

The soft light of her apartment was a gentle shock to Olivia’s eyes after the gray, fluorescent-lit world of the prison. She closed the door behind her, leaning against the cool wood, and took a long, shaky breath, the scent of fresh clean laundry in the air a powerful, grounding comfort. Her body, coiled with the tension of her first day, finally began to relax. Her mind, however, was still a whirlwind of clinical notes, security protocols, and a pair of impossibly blue eyes that had momentarily shifted to black.

She walked into the living room, where Chloe was sprawled on the plush gray sofa, a glass of red wine in her hand and a television show playing softly. Chloe, seeing the exhausted look on Olivia’s face, immediately sat up, her flirty, bold demeanor replaced by a look of genuine concern.

“Hey, you,” Chloe said, her voice soft. “You’re back. You look like you’ve just fought a war.”

Olivia let out a soft, humorless laugh as she kicked off her black dress pants and blouse, leaving her in only a tank top and her silk underwear showing off her delicate Mandela thigh tattoo. She sank onto the sofa beside her, pulling a soft throw blanket over her legs. “I think I have.”

Chloe poured a glass of wine for her, which Olivia accepted gratefully. “Spill,” Chloe said, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and morbid curiosity. “Give me all the gory details. Were there any hot serial killers? Did anyone try to shank you?”

Olivia took a slow, deep sip of the wine, the rich taste a stark contrast to the bland, metallic flavor of the prison air. “There were… no shivs,” she said, a small smile touching her lips. “But there were a few hot… inmates.”

Chloe’s eyes lit up, and she leaned forward, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. “Tell me everything. Did you flirt with any of them? Get a number? A prison romance is very ‘Orange is the New Black,’ you know.”

“Chloe, it’s a prison,” Olivia said, her voice laced with a weary exasperation. “I’m a doctor. We don’t flirt. We don’t give out our numbers. We don’t get personal.” She paused, the image of Xander’s face, the raw power in his eyes, flashing in her mind. “But there was one…”

“Aha!” Chloe said, her voice a triumphant squeal. “I knew it! The one that’s going to make you break all your rules.”

“He’s not… a serial killer,” Olivia said, her voice thoughtful. “He’s in for murder. He’s massive. And his presence… it’s a force of nature. It’s all power, control, dominance. He’s not a monster, but he’s… he’s something else.”

“Hot, right?” Chloe said, a sly, knowing grin on her face.

Olivia took another slow sip of her wine, her eyes far away, lost in the memory of the infirmary. “In a terrifying, primal way. Yes. But the strangest thing is… I wasn’t afraid. There’s something about him that feels… safe. It’s insane, I know. My mind is screaming ‘danger,’ but my gut is telling me something else entirely.”

Chloe, seeing the serious look on her friend’s face, put her wine glass down and touched her arm. “Liv, you have to be careful. Your gut feelings are great for picking out the best dessert, but they’re not so great for picking out homicidal maniacs. This is a prison, not a bar. These men are trained to manipulate women like you. You can’t fall for it.”

“I know, Chloe,” Olivia said, her voice low. “I know. But there’s something else. His medication. It’s classified. The dosage is incredibly high, and his reaction to it was like he was being poisoned. He was in pain, Chloe. He wasn’t just getting a shot. The guards brought it in. The vial had no label. This isn’t a standard psychiatric treatment.”

Chloe’s eyes widened, the flirty, playful look gone entirely. “Wait, what? A classified medication? That’s not a thing, is it?”

“Not in the medical world,” Olivia said, her voice a low, professional whisper. “It’s like they’re trying to keep something secret. I looked at the file. Bipolar and schizophrenia. It’s a very common diagnosis. It’s not something you classify. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“This sounds like a conspiracy,” Chloe said, her voice full of a new, unsettling fear. “Liv, this is not your problem. Let it go. Don’t get involved. This is dangerous.”

“I know,” Olivia said, her voice firm. “But I can’t. I saw something else, too. When I gave him the shot, I could have sworn… I could have sworn his eyes turned from blue to pitch black for a second. It was just for a flash, but I saw it. It’s impossible, I know. But I saw it.”

Chloe stared at her, her face a mask of disbelief and fear. “Liv, you have to be exhausted. You’re seeing things. This is exactly what I was afraid of. This place is going to mess with your head.”

“Maybe,” Olivia said, but she knew it wasn't true. The image of the black eyes, a swirling void of something ancient and powerful, was as clear as the glass in her hand. “Maybe. But whatever it is, I can’t let it go. There’s a mystery here, Chloe. And I have to know what it is.”

She finished her wine, the taste now a memory on her tongue, and stood up, her mind already racing with a plan. She walked to her desk, her hands already reaching for the patient files she had printed out. She pulled out Xander’s file and placed it on the desk, the name “Alexander Mahon” a grim, stark invitation.

“I have to find out what’s going on,” Olivia said, her voice full of a new, steely resolve. “I have to know what they’re doing to him. And I have to figure out what that medicine really is.”

The night was now a deep, inky black outside her window, but the room was filled with a new kind of light—the light of a woman on a mission, a woman who had just found her purpose, and a woman who was about to risk everything to uncover the truth.

Olivia's mind, a whirlwind of patient files and professional intrigue, refused to shut down. Even after she had said goodnight to Chloe, she found herself lying in bed, the soft blankets a stark contrast to the rough feel of the prison uniform she had been wearing just hours before. The image of Xander Mahon’s face, that quiet, dangerous intensity, was a persistent film on the back of her eyelids. She tried to close her eyes, to force her mind to rest, but the image of his muscular body, the memory of his low, gravelly voice, and the haunting, impossible shift of his eyes kept her awake.

She drifted, finally, into a restless, troubled sleep, a sleep where the lines between reality and fantasy blurred and bled into one another.

She was not in her apartment anymore. She was in a dark, primal place, a cavernous chamber of rough, unhewn stone, lit only by a single, flickering torch.

The air was cold and damp, and it smelled of ancient earth and the wild. He was there, waiting for her. He was standing in the shadows, his massive, tattooed body a dark, imposing silhouette in the firelight. He was still the man she had met, Alexander Mahon, but he was also terrifyingly different. The quiet control she had seen was gone, replaced by a raw, untamed dominance that radiated from him like a palpable heat. His eyes, she saw with a jolt of both fear and an unsettling thrill, were not the bright, piercing blue she remembered, but a complete, consuming pitch black. They were the eyes of an ancient predator.

He took a step toward her, and the sound of his low, gravelly voice was a physical force, a deep, rumbling command that seemed to bypass her ears and go straight to the primal part of her brain. "Mine," he said, the word not a request, but a statement of absolute ownership.

She was terrified, a profound, gut-wrenching fear of his sheer power and the dark, predatory hunger in his eyes. But beneath the terror, a strange, frantic heat was building in her body, a feverish, all-consuming desire that was a complete contradiction to the rational part of her mind. He was a monster, a creature of the night, and a part of her was screaming to run, but another, more powerful part was begging to submit.

He moved toward her with a slow, deliberate grace, a predator stalking his prey. He lifted his hand and his fingers, rough and calloused, cupped her face. His thumb stroked her cheek, a touch that was both gentle and utterly possessive. "We've been waiting for you, little mate," he said, his voice a low, dark growl that was both a promise and a threat. He leaned down, his face a shadow, and his lips, rough and demanding, met hers.

The kiss was an explosion of raw, untamed passion, a desperate, hungry force that left her breathless and reeling. It was not a kiss of love, but a kiss of pure, animalistic hunger. He lifted her into his arms, her body a feather-light weight against his immense strength, and carried her to a makeshift bed of furs and rough cloth. He laid her down, his body a heavy, dominant weight over hers, and his eyes, those terrifyingly black eyes, were fixed on hers, a silent, all-consuming question.

"Say my name," he commanded, his voice a deep, gravelly whisper that sent shivers down her spine. "Say my name."

She tried to, but her voice was a breathy, useless sound. She was a bird caught in the gaze of a snake, a small, fragile thing in the hands of a dark and powerful predator. The fear was still there, but it was now completely consumed by a profound, frantic, all-encompassing desire.

She woke with a gasp, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs, her body slick with a cold sweat. The blankets were tangled around her legs, and the room was silent, save for the wild, frantic sound of her own breathing. She sat up in bed, her mind reeling, her body still humming with the phantom touches of the man from her dream.

It was just a dream, she told herself, a terrifying, intensely s****l nightmare brought on by the stress of her first day and the overwhelming presence of the man she had met. But she couldn't shake the image of his eyes, the deep, consuming blackness of them, and the memory of that voice, that dark, gravelly command. The fear was still there, but it was now hopelessly entangled with the memory of the profound, animalistic pleasure she had felt, a pleasure that was a complete contradiction to her conscious mind.

She swung her legs out of bed and walked to the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, her eyes wide and haunted, and she knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that the man she had met, Alexander Mahon, was not who he seemed. And the man from her dream, the dark, dominant voice, the black, soulless eyes—that was the monster his file had described. And for the first time, she was afraid of him. Not just for her job, but for her heart, her body, and her very soul.