Page 63 of Chained By the Alpha
My face heats. “Just focus on driving!” I snap at him, knowing he is only taunting me.
Zayn smirks, not taking his eyes off the road as he navigates the winding highway headed toward his pack house. I cross my arms and stare out the window, trying to keep my frustrated emotions in check.
The rest of the drive is mostly quiet, with only the sound of the engine and the wind rushing past us. Eventually, we pull up at the front gates. He fiddles with the visor, and the gates unlock; his men on guard nod as he passes them.
We follow the road to his driveway and park in the circular courtyard, surrounded by tall trees and lush foliage. The main house stands high above us, illuminated by the moonlight.
As I get out of the car, Zayn follows me to the front door, opening it for me with a smile. We enter the dimly lit house, and he flips on the lights.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he grins, ‘I’m going to get out of this suit,” he tells me, leaving me as my eyes adjust to the light.
I head through the grand foyer, taking in the luxurious furniture and high ceilings, feeling out of place among the opulence. Zayn finds me a few minutes later, walking toward me in sweats and a tank, his eyes intent on me as he closes the space.
He places his hands on my hips, pulling me closer until I’m flush against him, and brushes his lips over mine. “Hungry?” he asks. I pull away from him, my hands flattening against his broad chest.
“Actually, we should talk,” I tell him, knowing what I need to do.
“We can talk after I feed you,” he tells me, leading me to the kitchen. I sigh, letting him direct me to the kitchen and I take a seat at the island.
Zayn cracks open a beer, before tossing one to me, and I catch it, noticing the way his muscles ripple under his tank. As he opens the fridge, I watch him, taking a swig of beer, handing me one.
Zayn’s movements are graceful and confident as he pulls out various ingredients from the fridge, humming to himself. His scent fills the room - a mix of woodsy musk and freshly bathed skin. The clink of glassware and metal on metal echoes against the stainless-steel surfaces. I finish my beer, then he goes to the fridge before pulling out an open bottle of wine.
He pours some wine into a glass and hands it to me, his fingers brushing against mine as he does so. It tickles my senses, sending shivers down my spine. “Tell me what you like in your food,” he asks while chopping up some vegetables with precision. I watch him work, his hands almost dancing across the cutting board with an ease that speaks volumes of his experience in the kitchen.
I sip from the glass, feeling the smoothness of the wine glide down my throat as I ponder his question. “Surprise me,” I finally reply with a smile.
“Challenge accepted,” he murmurs lowly before getting lost in his task once again - sautéing onions now while keeping an eye on something simmering on the stove top simultaneously. The aroma of garlic begins to fill the air, makingmy mouth water. His movements are graceful and predatory as he prepares the food, and I find myself entranced, before he glances at me over his shoulder.
“Like what you see?”
I blush a little, looking away quickly because damn it, he knows he looks good in this kitchen. He chuckles softly before turning back to his cooking.
He pours the leftover wine into a pan, the sizzling sounds fill the room as he tosses two big steaks in it with seasoning and olive oil. He sears each side then slides it onto a baking sheet, making sure to season both sides evenly before popping them into the hot oven. The smell intensifies as they cook, making my stomach gurgle with hunger.
“So,” I start tentatively, “My father…” I trail off, wanting to get this over with, yet he cuts me off, holding the wine bottle up.
“Did you like this wine?” he asks, I shrug because I am not much of a wine drinker. “If you want, you can grab us another bottle. I have a few in the basement in a small cellar. Down the hall first door on left,” he tells me, and I sigh, knowing he is deliberately avoiding the conversation; however, it’s one that needs to be had. Reluctantly, I go to the basement and open the door only for Zayn to come rushing toward me, scaring the crap out of me with how fast he moved.
I clutch my chest, “Jeez, you scared me.”
“Figured I would come to help,” he says, though he looks anxious. He leads me downstairs to a huge basement. Chains hang from the ceiling, and I see this part looks like a typical basement. One side has storage and a huge freezer when I see him walk through to another room. I stare at the chains, wondering what it’s for.
“Punching bag,” Zayn answers my thoughts, yet I don’t see any gym equipment down here, the stench of bleach making me wonder if he is a clean freak.
“This way,” he nods, and I follow him through a door which turns out to be another set of stairs leading further down under the mansion. I hesitate on the top step.
He must hear me stop because he glances back at me. “Are you coming?” he asks while I stare at the darkness below.
“Maybe I should wait upstairs,” I tell him nervously; he rolls his eyes, stomping up the steps only to grab me and toss me over his shoulder.
“Seriously, we’re back at Zayn is a serial killer. If I wanted you dead, I would have killed you and put you in the freezer,” he tells me.
“Because if you were a serial killer, you would tell me, too.”
He chuckles before placing me on my feet. “And if I was, you didn’t even put up a fight. Maybe you want me to kidnap you,” he tells me before turning me around to face a giant cellar of wine. “I thought you said it was small?”
“Nothing about me is small,” Zayn chuckles, and I peer at him.
