Page 4 of The Alpha's Forbidden Heir

The door creaks open, and I freeze. My heartbeat spikes, pounding in my ears like a warning drum. It’s probably him. Mr. Big Bad Wolf with his piercing eyes and frustratingly arrogantsmirk. Just thinking about him makes my skin itch and my stomach twist, mostly with anger. Mostly.

But it’s not him.

A woman walks in, balancing a first aid kit in her hands. She looks to be in her late twenties, with soft brown hair pulled back into a low bun and eyes that dart around the room like she’s looking out for every possible threat. Her scent is… different. Clean, like fresh laundry and lavender, but there’s something earthy underneath. She’s not human.

“Well, aren’t you a mess,” she set the kit on the table in the corner.

“Gee, thanks. Just what every woman wants to hear,” I snap.

She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t respond. Instead, she kneels in front of me and starts inspecting my wrists. Her hands are gentle, but I can feel the strength in them. She could probably snap my bones like twigs if she wanted to.

“These need cleaning,” she mutters, mostly to herself.

“Great. Maybe you can untie me first, and I’ll handle it myself.”

She glances up, her expression somewhere between pity and exasperation. “I’ll untie you, but only if you promise not to run.”

I blink. “Promise not to run? Did you miss the part where I’m tied to a chair in what I can only assume is your creepy boss’s basement?”

“It’s not a basement,” she says, standing to fetch something from the kit. “And there are guards outside the door. If you try to escape, they’ll catch you, and your punishment will be worse. Trust me on that.”

I swallow hard, the reality of her words sinking in. Not that I was planning a grand escape, - what was I going to do, chair-hop my way to freedom? - But still. The thought of “worse” isn’t exactly appealing.

“Fine. I promise.”

She nods like she didn’t expect anything less and pulls out a pair of scissors. She kneels again and cuts through the ropes. The moment my wrists are free, I rub them, wincing at the raw, red skin.

“Don’t move,” she orders, pulling out a small bottle of antiseptic. “This is going to sting.”

“Awesome. Can’t wait.”

The sting is immediate and sharp, like a thousand tiny needles stabbing into my skin. I hiss through my teeth, but she doesn’t apologize. Instead, she dabs ointment onto the wounds with the efficiency of someone who’s done this a hundred times before.

“Who are you?” I ask, watching her work.

She doesn’t look up. “You can call me Lila.”

“Okay, Lila. Where am I?”

She pauses for half a second, then resumes bandaging my wrists. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”

“I’m pretty sure I want answers to all of my questions right now.”

She ties off the bandage and stands, packing up the kit. “Follow me.”

“Follow you where?”

“No questions,” she repeats, heading for the door.

I stay put.

She stops and turns, her eyes narrowing. “Don’t make me drag you.”

The way she says it - calm, matter of fact - sends a shiver down my spine. I rise to my feet, and my legs wobble from sitting too long.

“Fine. Lead the way, Nurse Ratched.”

She doesn’t respond, maybe it’s because she doesn’t know the reference. Not a lot of people have watched the movie. She opens the door and gestures for me to follow.

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