Page 21 of Pack Obsession

I study him in the moonlight, his sharp cheekbones and jawline. Dangerous, yes. But enemy?

"I think..." I take a small bite of my protein bar. "I think labels are overrated."

A low laugh escapes him. "Diplomatic answer."

I swallow down the food. "Survival instinct."

"Is that why you’re up here, sharing snacks with a dangerous Alpha instead of hiding in your room?"

"No, that’s just poor judgment."

His grin is wickedly charming, and just being in his company has my stomach fluttering with butterflies. I shouldn’t be enjoying his company as much as I do, yet I don’t want this moment to end.

"At least you’re honest about it."

Silence falls. Below us, Logan executes a series of moves that look like lethal poetry.

"He’s good," I say softly.

"The best." Axel shifts, and suddenly, we’re closer, his thigh almost touching my knee. A buzz travels through me that I try to suppress. "Each of us... we came to this life, where we are now a pack, differently. Logan through war, Nash through necessity. Me, through fighting."

I tilt my head in confusion.

"Cage fighting. Underground circuit," he explains quietly. "Good money if you’re good at violence." Something dark flashes in his eyes. "I was very good."

"Was? So you stopped?"

His jaw tightens, and I watch his knuckles flex. Even in the dim light, I can see the thick scars across them.

"Three nights a week, I’d step into that cage. No rules, no mercy. Just pure savage instinct." He pauses, a muscle working in his cheek. "The crowd loves watching men tear each other apart. And a part of me loved it, craved it, lived for the adrenaline."

I should be terrified. I should be looking for an escape route. Instead, I find myself leaning closer. "But you don’t seem like someone who fights for crowds."

A bitter smile crosses his face. "Not anymore. I also fought because it was the only way to quiet the beast inside." His tone drops lower. "Still is, sometimes."

Moonlight spills through the library window, casting shadows from the branches swaying in the wind across the room. He’s closer than he should be. I find myself studying his hands where they rest on his knees, powerful and scarred, but there’s something else. In the silvery light, I notice traces of dark blue paint embedded in the creases of his fingers, stark against old scars.

"Your hands," I say before I can stop myself. "Is that paint…?"

He turns his palm up, examining it. This close, heat radiates from his body, the faint scent of turpentine beneath his cologne. "Noticed that, did you?" There’s something almost vulnerable in his voice. "The paintings in the hall… the ocean at night."

I shift to face him, my knee brushing his again. Part of me says to pull away, to remember he’s one of my captors, but there’s something magnetic about this moment, about seeing this other side of him.

"You painted those?"

"That’s not violence," he says quietly, his eyes meeting mine in the darkness. "That’s control." He looks at me then, really looks at me, and my pulse races at the intensity in those ice-blue eyes. "When the brutality threatens to spill over..." He trails off, glancing across the library. "I paint what I wish I could feel. Calm. Peace. Fucking serenity."

I smile. "I’m impressed. I can barely draw a stick figure without it looking deformed."

He huffs out what might almost be a laugh, reaching for the protein bar between us. He tears off a chunk and tosses it into his mouth. Once swallowed, he says, "Wasn’t born with it. Never touched a paintbrush until I was sixteen."

Something in his tone makes me curious. "What happened at sixteen?"

The sharp angles of his jaw shift. "Juvenile detention. Third strike for fighting. The judge thought he was being creative with my rehabilitation."

"Art classes?"

"Twice a week. Thought it was bullshit at first." Another piece of protein bar disappears. "Until I broke another kid’s jaw in the yard. Guard gave me a choice—solitary or the art room." His mouth twists. "Chose the art room. Figured at least I’d be warm."

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