Page 17 of The Alpha's Weakness
I can’t seem to control my attraction to him, but this isn’t what I want. I want to be someone’s first choice, not their last. I don’t think Camden would’ve ever chosen me willingly. If hereally wanted me, he would have come up to me that first day. He would have been excited to find me, not angry or dreading it.
I remember how he looked at me that first day and steel my walls as he walks up some porch steps and into a house.
A minute later, he dumps me onto a couch. I glare up at him. He crosses his arms over his chest and glares right back.
“We need to talk,” he says.
“Wedidtalk. Back at Adeline’s house.”
“Talk more.”
“Do you always abduct people to force them to talk to you?” I ask, sitting up on the couch.
“No, you’re my first.”
“Lucky me.”
He frowns as he sits in the chair across from me. “Listen?—”
My stomach growls. I didn’t eat this morning. I was waiting for Adeline to get back from dropping off her desserts in town before we made something to eat.
My cheeks heat, and I clear my throat. My eyes dart around the room before landing on the front door.
“Not a chance,” he growls.
Camden stands, and I lean back against the couch cushions as he approaches me. He doesn’t say anything as he grabs my hand, pulls me to my feet, and drags me down a short hallway to the kitchen.
Grabbing my hips, he lifts me onto a barstool without a word. Then he turns and rummages in the cupboards. My eyes flick to the front door, then back to him, debating if I can reach it before he catches me.
“You won’t get off the porch,” Camden says without turning around.
I flip him off behind his back.
He shakes his head. “I saw that.”
“Saw what?” I ask innocently.
He shoots me a look over his shoulder, then continues making a sandwich.
I sigh, tapping my foot against the kitchen island as I look around his house. It’s pretty bland. No personal effects, no décor at all. Everything in the kitchen is something he clearly uses often. Same in the living room. Just a couch, two chairs, a TV, and a lamp. The bare necessities.
“Eat,” Camden orders, setting a plate and a bag of chips in front of me.
I don’t argue. I grab the sandwich and eat quickly, hoping I can leave when I finish.
Camden leans against the counter and watches me like a hawk.
“What?” I ask, shoving a chip in my mouth.
“I think we got off on the wrong foot.”
I snort.
He sighs.
I eat another chip.
“But,” he continues, “we can start over.”
