When an Alpha hates his mate

Enemies-to-Lovers-Clash

Enemies-to-Lovers Clash

Davina’s POV

Being released from Vincent’s holding cell wasn’t an act of mercy , it was a deal with the devil.

He stood at the far end of the room, all golden eyes and predator stillness, as if he were deciding whether I was worth the trouble of keeping alive.

“You’re going to work with me,” he said, voice flat and commanding.

I arched a brow, crossing my arms. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Micah is after both of us. You’re either with me, or you’re dead.”

“Wow, so romantic but you should know I'm mainly after David Graham,” I shot back, stepping closer. “You reject me, humiliate me in front of your pack, and now you want me to play sidekick?”

His lips curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I don’t want you for anything except your knowledge of Micah’s movements. Don’t flatter yourself.”

My wolf bristled at the insult, but I forced myself to keep my face blank. “Fine,” I said through clenched teeth. “I’ll help you bring Micah down. But after that, I’m gone.”

Vincent’s gaze swept over me, slow and hot, like he could see straight through me. “We’ll see about that.”

Working with Vincent was torture — and not just because he was insufferably arrogant

He was infuriatingly good at getting under my skin. Every strategy meeting turned into an argument. Every time we went over Micah’s known hideouts, Vincent found a way to dismiss my suggestions, only to circle back to them hours later like they were his idea all along.

And then there were the moments when his guard slipped,when his eyes lingered too long on my mouth, when his voice dropped to a low growl that made my stomach twist, when I caught him watching me like he hated himself for wanting me.

Those moments were dangerous.

One night, after hours of going through intel, we ended up standing too close in the map room, the tension between us crackling like a live wire.

“You need to stop underestimating me,” I said, stabbing a finger at the map. “Micah’s not just going to hit your warehouses. He’s coming for you, Vincent. He wants you broken, humiliated—”

“Don’t tell me what Micah wants,” Vincent snapped, stepping closer, his golden eyes blazing. “You think you know him better than I do?”

“I do know him better than you,” I shot back. “You’ve been fighting him for years. I grew up in the same pack. I know how he thinks.”

He grabbed my wrist, his grip tight but not painful, pulling me closer until I could feel the heat radiating off his chest. “Then tell me,” he growled, his breath fanning over my face.

I froze, heart hammering, because he was so close I could see the flecks of amber in his irises. My wolf whimpered, urging me closer.

“Let me go,” I whispered.

“Say you don’t want me to do this,” he challenged, his voice low, dangerous.

I didn’t say it. I couldn’t.

And then he kissed me.

It wasn’t soft or tentative — it was a collision, teeth and tongues and anger and need all rolled into one. My hands fisted in his shirt before I could stop myself, pulling him closer, tasting the danger that had haunted me since the moment we met.

He tore his mouth from mine first, breathing hard, his forehead pressed to mine.

“This doesn’t change anything,” he said roughly.

“Good,” I lied, even though my entire body was shaking.

Two days later, we were ambushed.

We’d gone to scout one of Micah’s suspected hideouts — an old shipping yard at the edge of LA. Tim had insisted on coming, though Vincent had argued about leaving him behind to keep watch on the packhouse.

Good thing he didn’t.

The first shot rang out as soon as we stepped into the open yard.

“Down!” Vincent barked, shoving me behind a stack of crates as bullets sprayed the air.

I could smell Micah’s wolves before I saw them — rogues, at least a dozen of them, closing in fast.

Vincent shifted in a blur, his massive wolf tearing through the first two that came at him. Tim took down another, covering me as I scrambled for cover.

I could have stayed down. I should have stayed down.

But then I saw it — one of Micah’s men on the roof, aiming a silver bullet rifle straight at Vincent.

“Vincent!” I screamed, and without thinking, I shifted, fur and claws ripping through my skin as I launched myself across the yard.

I slammed into the shooter just as he pulled the trigger. The shot went wide, missing Vincent by inches.

We crashed to the ground, rolling until I had him pinned. My jaws closed around his throat, and with one savage jerk, it was over.

The yard fell silent.

When I shifted back, my chest was heaving, blood streaking my face. Vincent stood a few feet away, still in wolf form, his golden eyes locked on me like he’d never seen me before.

Slowly, he shifted back, towering over me, naked and furious and—gods help me—beautiful.

“You saved my life,” he said finally, voice hoarse.

“You’re welcome,” I snapped, grabbing a discarded shirt and pulling it over my head.

He stared at me for a long moment, then closed the distance between us in two strides.

“Why?” he demanded.

I blinked. “What?”

“Why save me?” His hands closed around my arms, his grip almost desperate. “You hate me. You had every reason to let me die.”

I jerked out of his grasp, my voice shaking. “Because you’re not my enemy, Vincent. Micah is. And because, goddess help me, I can’t watch my mate die.”

For a moment, something raw flickered in his eyes, something I hadn’t seen before — regret, maybe, or longing.

Then Tim cleared his throat awkwardly from behind us. “Uh… we should probably get out of here before more of Micah’s men show up.”

Vincent didn’t look away from me. “This isn’t over.”

I swallowed hard, my heart still hammering. “No,” I said softly. “It’s not.”

But as we climbed into the SUV, my hands still shaking from the fight, I knew something had shifted between us.

He didn’t see me as a spy anymore.

And that terrified me more than his hatred ever did.