Page 6 of The Alpha's Forbidden Heir

I turn on the shower and step inside, letting the hot water wash away the grime and the lingering thoughts of piercing blue eyes.

Because I’m not letting him get to me.

Not now. Not ever.

The bathroom steam clings to my skin as I pad barefoot across the plush carpet, wrapping the bathrobe tighter around me. The robe is soft, annoyingly luxurious, and makes me feel like I’ve stepped out of some overpriced spa instead of the bathroom of the man who kidnapped. My hair drips onto my shoulders, the strands heavy with water, and I catch my reflection in the ornate mirror above the dresser in the bedroom.

I drag a towel through my hair. He doesn’t scare me. Not really. Well, maybe a little, in that primal, heart-pounding way that makes my pulse race for all the wrong reasons. But fear and anger are close cousins, and I’ve decided to keep them firmly in the anger column.

The door swings open, and it slams against the wall. My stomach twists, and I spin around, clutching the towel like a shield. And there he is. Filling the doorway like he owns it - because of course he does - broad shoulders, piercing eyes, and that stupid aura of authority that sets my teeth on edge.

“What the hell are you doing?”

He steps inside, ignoring me entirely, his gaze sweeping the room like he’s inspecting it for dust. “Nice to see you settled in.”

“Get out.” I point toward the door, with my towel still clutched in my hand. “Now.”

His eyes finally land on me, and a slow, infuriating smirk curves his lips. “You’re inmyapartment. I go where I want.”

“I don’t care if you own the building,” I snap. “There’s a little thing called privacy. Ever heard of it?”

“I’ve heard of it, but it doesn’t apply to you.” He leans casually against the doorframe, crosses his arms and looks entirely too comfortable in a situation where he’s clearly unwelcome. “Not while you’re here.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

The towel in my hand slips to the floor, and I bend to grab it, glaring at him the entire time. “I don’t care what you’ve been called. Get out.”

His smirk fades, replaced by a look that’s sharper, more calculating. “You always this mouthy, or is it just for me?”

“Just for you. Consider it a compliment.”

The tension between us hums, and I hate that my heart hammers in response. This man is the epitome of everything I despise, arrogant, controlling, and completely devoid of basic decency. And yet, standing there in a bathrobe with his stupid blue eyes boring into me, I feel the traitorous pull of something entirely different.

“Why are you here?” I ask. “Or do you just enjoy barging into women’s rooms uninvited?”

“Women don’t usually complain,” he says, his smirk widening.

“Oh, I’m sorry, should I swoon now?”

“You can do whatever you want, princess.”

I hate the way the nickname makes my stomach twist, hate that he says it like he knows it’ll get under my skin.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? It suits you.”

I glare at him, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch. He’s entirely too comfortable, standing there like he has all the time in the world to mess with me.

“What do you want from me?

“What are you doing here?”

I blink, caught off guard by the question. “What?”

“Why are you here?” He pushes off the door, closing the distance between us in a few slow, deliberate steps. “On my territory.”

---