Page 27 of Cruel Alpha: Season One

‘Luxury’ at this level is what Aunt Geneva’s dreams are made of, but these were never the things I fantasized about when my head hit the pillow. Here, living in this estate with the alpha, it’s as though I’ve somehow stumbled onto an alternate timeline where nothing makes sense, and nothing feels familiar. Especially since discovering just how easily I seem to forget who I am, seem to forget my principles. But I’ve recently found a new sense of resolve, and I intend to hold on to it.

It was my singular misguided encounter with the alpha that jolted me awake from the daze, setting me straight. That night, I learned how persuasive he can be, and I’m also now aware of how my moral compass seems to malfunction in his presence. But the wonderful thing about wonky compasses is that they’re easily recalibrated.

So, that’s what I’ve focused on this past week.

Recalibrating.

It was impossible to avoid Caspian altogether, but with how busy he’s been with clan affairs, it was easy enough to steer clear of him. Most of the time, anyway.

However, there were still those moments.

Moments when we’d pass one another going in opposite directions down a hallway, and I couldn’t avert my eyes from his quickly enough. Moments when he’d enter a room, and I’d only remember he’s a bruteafterI’d taken a second to admire the way his shirt clung to his chest and biceps. He, of course, always seemed to notice and smiled a little just before looking away. That reaction—cheeky with undertones of arrogance—implies that he believes he knows something. But whatever he suspects I think about him, orfeelfor him, he’s wrong.

Lucky for me, my things arrived from my aunt and uncle’s home the morning after what I now not so affectionately refer toasThe Drawing Room Incident. Unpacking and arranging my book collection in the library has kept me busy. It’s also made it easy to refocus my thoughts when they slip.

And, unfortunately… they do slip.

Flashbacks of Caspian have become a regular occurrence now, railroading their way into my head more frequently as the days pass. I envision him all the time. Mostly just as I’m about to fall asleep, or when I undress. And it’s always the same visual—his wicked stare fixed on me as his mouth settles between my thighs for that very first taste.

Seated at the vanity, my eyes fall closed now, as the memory floods my thoughts again. I quickly remind myself that despite what my body has to say about it, that experience was awful, and it can nevereverhappen again.

Ever.

The sound of my bedroom door opening has my eyes flashing toward the threshold just as Lady Gilreath and Lady Waverly—the stylist and the dressmaker—return with more tools in hand. They’re in a rush, tugging me in all directions to pull off the finishing touches of the look half a moment before the doorway darkens again. Only, this time, there’s not another friendly, cherubim face here to apply lipstick or more crystals to my dress. This time, it’s Archibald.

The ladies, who were all smiles and giggles just a moment ago, have now stepped aside and are standing expressionless with their hands clasped in front of them.

“Ms. Breedlove, it’s time,” Archibald says, but there’s only one small problem with that statement.

“Time for what, exactly?” The question leaves me with a sharp edge, but only because, in all the commotion, no one’s bothered telling me where I’m expected to be so early.

“I’m afraid Alpha Caspian has requested that we allowhimthe opportunity to explain once you join him downstairs.”

I stand with a huff, gathering the heavy dress in both hands as I stomp toward the door. Archibald leads the way, but Lady Gilreath and Lady Waverly stay behind. My steps echo through the halls, and my heart beats just as loudly. As we take the stairs, I try to imagine what this could possibly be about. I’ve already had a meet-and-greet with the staff—Mrs. Melinda Fitzgibbons, the head chef; Zara, Caspian’s administrative assistant; Lady Penelope Radcliffe, the social coordinator; Sir Thomas Waverly, the head of security; Duke Blake Putnam, the secondary clan advisor, Viscount Lawrence Hawthorne, the clan historian; Lady Amelia Fairmont, the librarian and assistant to the historian; and the most peculiar of them all, Jezebel, the estate’s herbalist and medical authority.

There can’tpossiblybe more members of the household to be introduced to. If there are, to hell with trying to remember their names on top of everyone else’s.

Archibald comes to a halt outside the large double doors that lead to the grand hall. I hear male voices across the threshold but can’t make out what’s being said. Then, once Archibald knocks, the voices fall silent as footsteps echo.

I hold my breath, watching the growing shadow beneath the door. It swings open and Caspian stares back, causing my eyes to widen with surprise. It’s not that I didn’t expect him to be present, or even that it’s so strange thatheopened the door instead of a servant, but because… my heart leapt at the sight of him.

Which is completely, one-hundred percent unacceptable.

Creed and Dimitri are at either side of the alpha, their gazes shifting to him when he stands before me, speechless. Slowly, Caspian scans my dress—or rather he scansmeinthis dress—and I’m so focused on his reaction that I don’t miss how his throat bobs when he swallows deeply. He seems to enjoy how theexpensive, navy blue silk clings to my breasts and waist, before flaring at my hips, flowing all the way to the floor.

Now,I’mthe one who swallows, my mouth suddenly feeling dry.

Caspian steps aside, and I finally notice there are people standing behind him—a line of women dressed as elaborately as I am this morning. It’s as I inspect that line that I recognize two girls at the end of the row. My cousins, Winifred and Elizabeth. Their faces brighten when they momentarily lift their gazes to meet mine, only to lower them again as if they’ve been told not to make eye contact.

Wait… were they told not to make eye contact?

“What is this?” The question falls from my lips. I haven’t directed it at anyone in particular, but Caspian answers.

“Your maiden selection,” he says.

I have so many questions, but my throat seizes with fear, worrying that it will somehow backfire if I call attention to the fact that not all these women are strangers to me.

My thoughts shift to the list of protocols that were typed up and slipped beneath my door one morning this week, as Caspian promised. I’m inclined to abide by them. Not out of respect for the one making the ridiculous demand, but out of fear of what might happen to my family if I don’t.

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