Chapter 23 #2
“Absolutely anything to hold on to it,” she says immediately, and the raw sincerity in her voice touches something deep in my chest. No hesitation. No games. Just honest truth.
Her eyes glisten, the genuine pain and regret written across her face. This is not manipulation, not her trying to play on my emotions to get what she wants.
This is real hurt. Real regret. Real determination to make things right.
I can absolutely work with that.
“If we’re going to get to know each other better,” I say carefully, choosing every word with deliberate precision, “learn to actually trust each other again, rebuild what was broken, and help you take down that fucking asshole Reed, then you need to move in with us.”
“Wait, what? Why? Did Jasper tell you that Reed offered Ash a marketing job?”
I hold her gaze and nod once. “He did.” There’s no point in softening it.
“If you want to infiltrate Reed’s organization properly,” I continue, “get close enough to expose him for the fraud he is, then it has to be done right. Not halfway. Not alone. With us behind you and watching your back. He has a major live event coming up in over a week. That’s where he’s vulnerable and where he’ll be careless. That’s where we end him.”
She listens, absorbing every word, her expression shifting from shock to focus.
“That makes sense strategically,” she says slowly, her mind already working through it.
Of course it does. She’s smart. That’s one of the reasons she got past my defenses in the first place.
“But the main reason for you moving in with us,” I add, lowering my voice slightly, letting the truth sit heavier between us, “is trust.”
She goes still.
“With you living across town, showing up occasionally, leaving whenever things get difficult, that’s distance. Distance makes it easy to hide. Easy to doubt. Easy to walk away.”
I hold her eyes so that she understands exactly what I’m saying.
“We need proximity, daily interaction, real life. Not curated moments. If this pack is going to unite with you, it happens under the same roof. Not across town.”
Her lips part slightly at that, emotion flickering across her face.
“They want you there,” I finish quietly. “So do I.”
She drags her tongue slowly across her lower lip, the movement captivating. Her skin is flushed from the heat, a faint sheen of perspiration catching the light along her throat, her collarbone.
“God,” she murmurs, lifting her hand to wipe her forehead, her voice unsteady, “it’s so unbearably hot in here.”
My body reacts instantly. That small, absent gesture shouldn’t mean anything. Shouldn’t affect me.
But it does.
Her tongue. Her mouth. The heat rising off her skin.
My cock hardens, thick and insistent, blood rushing through me with brutal certainty. I don’t move, don’t let her see how close I am to losing control around her.
She stares down at her hands for a long moment, her shoulders tightening.
“I really feel like absolute shit about what I did to all of you. The lies. The deception.” Her voice cracks slightly.
“I will do anything to make it right. Tell you every secret. I’ll grovel if that’s what it takes.
Whatever you need from me to earn back even a fraction of your trust.”
I turn, my full attention locked on her. “You’ve got my attention,” I say, my voice dropping, controlled but unmistakably intent. “You have secrets you haven’t told us yet?”
Her breath catches.
And in that moment, I know two things with absolute certainty: She’s terrified of losing us, and she’s already halfway back to being ours.
Then she laughs, and the sound settles somewhere low in my chest, unexpected and disarming in a way I don’t let show on my face. “Nothing particularly interesting or scandalous, believe me.”
I study her for a moment, taking in the way her shoulders have finally loosened, and how she isn’t braced as if she expects punishment for breathing wrong.
“Try me anyway.”
She hesitates, her teeth catching her lower lip in a small, unconscious gesture that pulls my focus straight to her mouth. I’ve watched that mouth argue with me, lie to me, flirt with me. Now it curves into something softer. Dangerous in an entirely different way.
“A friend in the city once convinced me to do a boudoir photo shoot. You know, one of those intimate photography sessions. But for mine, she turned me into a Valkyrie, all leather straps, gold accents, and nothing underneath but bare skin. Very ‘battle-forged fantasy meets forbidden temptation,’ apparently. She thought it would be empowering.”
Fuck me… A Valkyrie! The sauna suddenly feels smaller. Hotter. Because my mind betrays me immediately, building the image without permission.
She’s on the shore, bare except for those leather straps, doing nothing to hide the curve of her ass, the soft weight of her breasts barely contained behind them.
I don’t hesitate.
I’m on her in seconds, standing behind her, my hands closing around her hips. Her breath catches, sharp and surprised, but she doesn’t resist. My hand slides over her bare ass, then falls between her thighs to find her soaking wet, feeling the way she trembles under my touch.
She exhales my name.
That sound alone almost undoes me.
My grip tightens on her hip, holding her exactly where I want her, my legs nudging hers wider, my fingers finding that perfect hole and fingering her until she screams. She arches instinctively, pressing back into me, offering herself without words.
“Did you wear this for me?” I whisper.
She shivers.
And I know, without question, she would let me take whatever I want.
My grip tightens against the bench beneath me as I come back to reality so fucking hard that I’m in pain.
The towel around my waist does nothing to conceal the immediate reaction. My body responds before logic can intervene, and heat coils low in my stomach, thick and insistent, and I force my breathing to remain steady even as the image refuses to loosen its hold.
“And where exactly does one find these photos?” I ask, keeping my voice even, though it comes out rougher than intended.
She smiles, clearly aware she has my full attention. “Nowhere accessible. They’re on a password-protected flash drive in a box somewhere in my closet.”
I lean slightly closer, holding her gaze without apology. “To properly believe this particular secret, I’m going to need concrete evidence. Visual proof.”
Her laughter comes easier now, lighter. “Nice try, Alpha. Not happening.”
“I’m completely serious.”
She studies me like she’s measuring how far she can push before I snap. There’s no fear in her expression, only curiosity.
“I know you are. That’s what makes it funny.”
I let out a slow breath through my nose, forcing control through my system. She has no idea what she’s doing to me. Or maybe she does and she’s testing it. Testing me.
“You’re going to torture me with this information, aren’t you?”
She tilts her head slightly, unapologetic. “Maybe a little.”
I nod once, accepting it. “Cruel woman.”
Her eyes flicker with satisfaction. “You like it.”
I don’t answer immediately, because the truth sits too close to the surface. I like this version of her, the one who isn’t afraid to challenge me and doesn’t shrink.
“I do,” I admit finally, my voice quieter now, more honest than I intended.
I hold her gaze for a moment longer, then shift slightly on the bench, adjusting the towel without thinking.
It does nothing to ease the tension running through my body.
“Okay,” I say after a moment, reclaiming control of the conversation. “I have a secret too. Fair trade.”
Her interest sharpens immediately, her entire focus locking on to me.
“Oh, big bad Slater is hiding something?” she says, leaning forward, her eyes bright. “Get out of here. I don’t believe it for a second.”
I meet her gaze, letting her see that this isn’t a joke.
Then I glance away briefly, not from weakness, but because choosing to give someone a piece of yourself requires intention. Requires certainty. This isn’t something I’ve offered anyone in a long time. I decide she’s worth it.
Then I begin to sing.
It’s an old Norse sailing song my grandfather taught me when I was young, before he passed.
The words are in Old Norse, guttural and powerful and ancient, meant to be sung by Viking warriors heading out to dangerous seas.
My voice drops lower naturally, taking on that deep resonant quality I use for narration work, letting each word carry weight and meaning even though I know she doesn’t understand the language.
“Víkingr ferr á skip, haf kallar, vindr blaess sterkr…”
The song isn’t long, maybe thirty or forty seconds total, but I put everything into it. Let my voice fill the small wooden space completely, let it vibrate through the heated air.
The silence after the last note stretches between us, thick and alive. Perspiration runs down my back, but I like the heat.
Anita is staring at me like I’ve just reached inside her and rearranged something vital.
Her lips are parted. Her thighs are pressed together so tightly I can see the tension running through her muscles.
Her breathing is uneven, chest rising faster than it should in this heat. Her pupils are dark and hungry.
All from my voice.
A slow, dangerous satisfaction settles low in my chest.
She fans herself dramatically, her hand fluttering near her face in a gesture that would be mocking if it weren’t for the way her fingers tremble slightly.
“If your voice didn’t already completely cripple me,” she says, breathless but trying for humor, “now you sing? In a language that sounds like it belongs in some dark bedroom instead of a history book?” She swallows, her throat moving in a way that holds my attention.
“Sweet Jesus. Have mercy on my poor life choices.”
I don’t smile.
I lean forward, resting my forearms on my thighs, closing the distance between us without touching her.