Tempted By His Touch (Taken by His Alpha #8)

Chapter 1

The alarm cuts through the darkness, and my hand slams it silent before the second beep.

Seven a.m.

Again.

My body stirs ahead of consciousness, a practiced response from the years when too much sleep meant stepping into trouble. The sheets twist around my legs as I sit up, my skin already sticky in the apartment’s useless air conditioning.

Another day of pretending I’m okay starts now.

My heels hit the floor, and in three steps, I enter the bathroom. Light switch on the left. Cold water splashed on my face. The mirror hangs above the sink, but I turn my back to it, a habit so ingrained that the effort goes unnoticed.

The coffee machine gurgles and hisses in the kitchen while I brush my teeth, and I stare at the cracked tile beneath my feet.

The stale scent of last night’s takeout lingers in the apartment, but it can’t hide the faint copper tang that never quite leaves, no matter how much bleach I use in the bathroom. My pheromones sit heavy in the air, filled with anger, unease, and all the things I try to keep on a short leash.

Back in the bedroom, I sit on the bed and pull the first aid kit from under the bed. The white plastic box is cool within my grasp as I flip the latches and lift the lid. Gauze, antiseptic, and medical tape, all arranged in their individual slots.

This routine, too, runs on autopilot.

I push the sweatpants down my thighs, revealing yesterday’s bandages. The adhesive clings to my skin, pulling as I remove each one with care. Air hits the lines of scabbed flesh underneath, some fresh, others faded to pale silvery tracks.

My breath catches as a scab tears, bright red beading along the edge. The sting registers from a distance, as if it belongs to someone else. I hold a sterile square of gauze to the cut, applying pressure until the bleeding stops.

Some mornings, the scars itch like memories trying to claw their way out. Today, they throb dully as I clean each one, the antiseptic cold on my fevered skin.

I secure fresh bandages with practiced movements, smoothing the tape with my thumb. The ritual completes with the snap of the first aid kit closing, everything locked away and hidden once more.

In the kitchen, the coffee has finished brewing. The mug warms my hands as I stare out the window at the brick building adjacent to mine. Six stories up, and my view is nothing but someone else’s wall.

The sky above shows gray with early morning light, promising another scorcher. July in Ashford Heights means heat seeping through windows and creeping under doors, turning the city into a pressure cooker.

My phone buzzes from the counter, and my best friend’s name flashes on the screen, followed by a string of messages.

Micah

Self-defense at 8, don’t forget!!

Coffee after?

Are you awake??? Don’t leave me to face the Alpha instructor alone.

Saint?????

The corner of my mouth twitches. I’m not built for bonds, wasn’t even before I went to juvie, but Micah’s one of my few exceptions.

We grew up together in the same shit hole of a group home that the city put us in. I took the hits the older kids would have aimed at him and gave back as good as I got.

He’s my ride-or-die, and I’ve never let anyone else as close to me.

He also types like he talks, all exclamation points and dramatic pauses. My complete opposite.

I set the coffee down and return his barrage with a single word.

Saint

Coming.

The idea of watching strangers put their hands on Micah has my Alpha instincts bristling, but after what happened last month, he needs this.

I had started out teaching him myself, but it’s hard to be rough with my bestie, whose previous exercise experience was squats, and our schedules don’t always line up. So he had suggested these classes as a compromise and asked me to come along to vet the teachers.

My hackles still rise when I think about how he looked after one of his clients tried to assault him. He needs to learn how to defend himself, or next time he might not be so lucky.

The world isn’t kind to Omegas, especially ones who make their living on camera.

In the bedroom, I pull a long-sleeved black shirt from the drawer despite the weather report on my phone warning of ninety-degree temperatures. Heat is a small price to pay for a place that ignores my juvenile detention record and the bruises from new fights and old.

My reflection catches the corner of my vision as I pass the hallway mirror. Dark eyes with darker circles beneath them and hair messy from sleep.

I turn away before I can catalog more details.

The top drawer of my dresser sits ajar, revealing what I call my “quieting down” kit. A small leather case, inconspicuous enough that no one would question finding it. Inside, sharp blades and temporary relief. My fingers hover over the drawer handle, muscle memory urging me to take it along.

The phone buzzes again.

Micah

If you’re not there when class starts, I’m telling everyone you collect Norman Rockwell plates.

My hand closes around the kit, and I shove it into my gym bag.

The motorcycle keys hang on a hook by the door, next to the leather jacket that’s too heavy for summer but covers everything in need of covering. The keys settle in my palm, solid and real in a way few things are.

Micah needs me. That has to be enough reason to keep moving forward.

I lock the apartment door, triple-checking the deadbolt before heading down the hallway to the elevator. Artificial pine mixes with the char of someone’s breakfast in the air, and the walls are so thin that a child’s crying leaks through one door while a television thunders through another.

Normal morning sounds that belong to a world I’m only visiting.

As the elevator creaks its way down to the ground floor, I check my phone again, noting the time. Forty minutes until the class starts. Plenty of time to meet up with Micah, who will be wired with his second energy drink by now and expecting me to keep up.

I can do this much.

I can pretend.

The gym reeks of old sweat and cheap disinfectant as I push through the glass doors. Blue mats cover the floor of the front room, where a dozen people stretch in workout clothes ranging from professional to pajama-adjacent.

Micah spots me, and his hand shoots up in an enthusiastic wave that draws attention I don’t want.

“You came!” Micah bounces on his toes, chestnut hair falling across his forehead. “I was about to text you again.”

“I said I’d come.”

The fluorescent lights hum overhead, too bright with the white of the walls. In my leather jacket, I don’t blend in, and a few people waiting for class to start take me in with clear concern.

I ignore them as I scan the room, cataloging exits and potential threats out of habit. A familiar figure leans against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest.

Jade’s black hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail, and his blue eyes meet mine across the room, one eyebrow arched in greeting.

He tilts his head toward the instructors warming up at the front of the room, his expression conveying what words don’t need to.

We’re in for amateur hour here.

“You brought Jade?” I ask.

Micah shrugs. “He showed up five minutes ago. Said he was bored.”

Translation: Jade is worried about Micah, too.

The incident last month shook our small circle more than anyone admits. An Omega who makes his living being desirable on camera walks a dangerous line, and Micah’s stalker crossed it with frightening ease.

I drop my gym bag by the wall and remove my jacket, careful to ensure the sleeves of my shirt stay pulled down. The air conditioning struggles to cut the heat of thirty bodies in a closed space.

“Gabriel tried to tag along, too,” Micah adds.

I grunt in response.

He rocks on his heels. “He’s not so bad, once you get to know him.”

I turn my head to glare. “Stop trying to set me up with your brother-in-law. I don’t do other Alphas.”

“You don’t do anyone,” he mutters, his cheeks turning pink.

I sigh. “Just because you’re happily mated to a billionaire Alpha doesn’t mean everyone else needs to be, too.”

“Not everyone. Just you. Billionaire life is pretty nice, once you grow accustomed to the domestic staff and the constant surveillance.” Worry flickers across his features. “And I don’t like you being alone since I moved up to Skyhaven. I don’t see you as much as I used to.”

If I told him that his move left me lonely, too, it would only make him feel guilty. “Contrary to your belief, my world doesn’t revolve around you.”

“Shut up!” He shoves my shoulder. “Yes, it does.”

I ruffle his hair. “Okay, yes, it does.”

And I refuse to let it hurt that his life stopped revolving around me.

Micah worked hard to earn his happily ever after.

It’s not his fault I’m not cut out for the same life.

I’ve got too many demons, and some young billionaire Alpha isn’t going to lay any of them to rest. I’d likely kill Gabriel Rockford if he ever tried to touch me in earnest instead of simply playing around.

“So, what do you think?” Micah gestures to the front, where two instructors demonstrate basic warm-up moves.

The man, a middle-aged Alpha with a receding hairline and muscles built from gym time instead of fighting, directs his female Beta partner through exaggerated defensive postures.

“I think…” I turn toward Jade, and the two of us trade a quick, silent assessment. “You could learn more from watching a YouTube tutorial.”

Micah’s face falls. “That bad?”

“Worse.” Jade steps up beside us, criticism sharpening his posture. “The stance he’s teaching would knock you on your ass in two seconds flat.”

“He’s right,” I say. “In the streets, you have to fight dirty. An attacker isn’t going to wait around for you to assume the right position.”

“You’d be better off keeping a knife on hand,” Jade adds with a curl of his lip. “If someone grabs you, start stabbing any part of their body you can reach.”