Fated Alpha Mate (Alpha Wolf Valley #2)

Chapter 1 - Annika

“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever encountered, Annika…”

I shouldn’t have listened to words that shouldn’t have made me fold so easily. But they are also words spoken from lips that usually mumble incoherently, from a tongue that clicks across a boardroom when he’s irritated.

Hearing him say those words, whispered in my ear like honey trickling from the heavens…damn…I couldn’t resist. I know I’ll probably regret it in the morning, but for now, having his lips trace my neck, traveling to my collarbones, my body turning pliant in his capable hands…

That’s all I want to focus on…

That’s all I can focus on…

“Hm…” I mewl as his hand slips beneath my dress, his fingers stroking the inside of my thigh as he searches for my clothed core.

The crotch of my panties is already soaking, drenched in arousal, clinging to my folds like second skin.

My fingers card through his luscious brown curls; his eyes darken as he pulls away and stares at my face, my blush-pink lips moist and swollen as far as I can see my reflection through his crystal gaze.

He finds my core and bites his bottom lip, eyes dark and hungry as he stares into mine. The moment his index finger slips beneath my panties, his knuckle brushing against my folds, my body shudders, and I dig into his shoulder blades with my nails, eyes closing as I throw my head back and moan.

And the moment I open my eyes, I’m staring at my ceiling, cheek kissed by the morning sun filtering through the curtains, in a pool of sweat from the dream.

“Fuck…” I groan, wiping a hand across the sweat on my forehead, one hand curling into a fist in the sheets as I chastise myself for even having that dream at all.

It’s not like I could help it, unless I didn’t fall asleep with thoughts of him on my mind.

It’s not like they were good thoughts. I mean, how could I possibly think well of him when he’d been a complete douchebag to me at last night’s gala dinner?

Did I just wake up from a sexy dream about the man I hate, in which I imagined him pinning me against the wall in his office while his hand slid up the slit of the tight black dress I’d been wearing last night?

Yes.

Do I regret having that dream?

Absolutely!

I hate his guts, and I’d rather die than have his hands anywhere near me.

Taking a deep breath to compose myself, I drag myself out of bed and into the shower, where I can scrub myself clean from the dream I had about my boss. It was more like a nightmare, and I’d rather not focus on it.

But it’s becoming increasingly hard not to as I prepare for the day, the time ticking by and bringing me closer to when I’ll inevitably have to face him.

Groan…

My outfit of choice is a navy-blue suit, and a black shirt to match my black heart in my chest—a heart blackened by hatred. Before I leave for the day, I check my emails, sighing because of another that starts with “Unfortunately…” in response to an application for another job.

If I had to guess, it’s my boss blocking any opportunity to leave my post as his personal assistant. The last time I asked him for a referral letter, he shot me down point-blank and asked me for his schedule for the week.

The journey to the office is excruciating; every mile feels more tedious than the last, my heart sinking and my spirit dying the closer I get to work.

By the time I get to the parking garage, I switch off entirely, taking a few moments in the car to shut down my emotions and numb myself to whatever keeps me stuck in a loop of hatred toward my boss.

While he’s insufferable, the pay is excellent, and the perks make it nearly worth putting up with his brutal coldness.

How someone can be so empathetically closed off makes no sense to me. It’s almost as if he isn’t human at all, like he’s a cold, heartless beast without a flicker of compassion or empathy for the human race.

I see it all the time—every meeting with the board or investors my boss attends only makes him appear as hard and cold as stone. He doesn’t bat an eyelid, doesn’t flinch, always has his fingers steepled in front of his face like he’s—

“Annika! Thank God, you’re here!” Melissa, the cute receptionist behind the desk in the lobby, springs up and comes rushing toward me, pushing a file into my hands.

“Oh, good morning, Mel. How was your evening?” I ask sarcastically as I take the file from her with a giant grin on my face.

She lets out a breath as if she’d been holding it in. “Sorry, Annika,” she whispers. “The board called an emergency meeting this morning, after last night’s success at the gala.”

Melissa beams from ear to ear, her eyes starry as she continues, “Mr. Ralph must have done something great.”

I scoff at the sentiment, placing a hand on her shoulder and patting it while my heart sinks.

I thought I’d get at least another hour to myself before I had to see him this morning, but now there’s a surprise meeting I’ll be forced to attend.

“Haven’t I told you before? The sun does not shine out of Mr. Ralph’s ass, Melissa. ”

She cocks her head to the side, one brow arching in disagreement. “Have you seen him, Annika? Of course, the sun shines out of his ass. It shines out of his pores.”

Her eyes flicker past my shoulder, her jaw dropping as she practically drools. “I mean…just look at him.”

The air shifts, a soft passing wind pulling my attention in the direction she’s gawking, and against my better judgment, I find myself meeting Mr. Ralph’s eyes as if he’d been staring at the back of my head, as if he knew I’d been dreaming about him last night.

My breath catches in my throat, and no matter how many times I’ve seen him, it’s nearly impossible to resist the urge to keep my eyes glued to the stunning Adonis walking into the lobby from the elevator.

He steps out, and one long stride brings him halfway across the hall, his shoulders squared and broad, tapering into the tiny waist where one button fastens his black blazer.

One hand is casually tucked in the pocket of his tailored black pants, the expensive fabric hugging his powerful thighs and leaving little to the imagination.

I’m not even breathing by the time my eyes flit across the prominent bulge at the apex of his thighs, and when I tear my gaze away with guilt, I find his eyes still stuck on my face, as if he’s accusing me of a heinous crime.

I’m guilty as charged, and feel my cheeks burning with shame as I recall the dream I had last night. Luckily, my highly melanated flesh doesn’t betray me by displaying a blush so easily, but it’s as if my boss can see right through me, not removing his eyes from my face.

Was that…a smirk I saw crossing his lips? I’m pretty sure I just saw the evidence of a dimple in his cheek—something that’s usually unnoticeable because of the dark beard framing his face, and his stoic and cold demeanor.

As briefly as it was there—unless I imagined it—it’s gone, and he returns to his ruthless coldness, walking past us without a nod or any acknowledgment as he continues strutting toward his office like a model on a runway.

That’s where he belongs—not as the director of a multi-million-dollar pharmaceutical company that actually helps people.

How can someone so cruel be the reason for so much healing?

How can someone so cold have such a distinctly human and intoxicatingly masculine scent?

The air is filled with it, wrapping me in tendrils of invisible chains that keep me bound to the spot, intrusive thoughts of last night's dream flashing through my mind like I’m reliving every moment of a nightmare.

Sauvage…

He wears it like a medal, like the savage of a human being he is.

Perks of being his personal assistant include ordering his cologne when it runs out…

“Annika…?” Melissa snaps me out of my daze, her voice a lifeline in the unwarranted thoughts and fantasies, springing me back to life.

“Yes. The meeting,” I say matter-of-factly, clutching the file to my chest as I straighten my spine and square my shoulders, even as a cold shiver passes through me. I don’t even flinch, marching forward with my chin lifted defiantly, unfazed, as I walk toward his office door.

I lift my hand and give a tight, firm knock, then wait for the response that never comes.

“Three…two…one…” I count down before I turn the handle and step inside, keeping my eyes bolted to the painting of the Eiffel Tower behind him.

Romantic?

Pfft!

He keeps that painting there only because it was a gift from an investor.

“Good morning, Mr. Ralph,” I greet as I walk toward his desk, opening the file and taking out the first page from the binder, then holding it out to him.

I only briefly catch the details of the meeting as the page drifts from me to him, but I’ve already clocked them by the time it lands in his hand.

Over the years, I’ve learned to be efficient while working for him.

I’ve never been caught slipping, because I’ve seen how he treats anyone who does.

“You have a meeting scheduled for 10 a.m.”

Mr. Henry Ralph doesn’t even look at me as he sits at his desk and skims the content of the page. He holds the page out to me again, his eyes returning to his computer screen.

“Get me my usual,” is all he says.

There’s no point in arguing with his cold dismissal, or reminding him that I’m not the one doing the coffee runs for his double-shot espresso. That’s Melissa’s job, and while the images of the dream continue to flash in my mind, I need to get away as quickly as I can.

At least I have two hours to go before I need to be in the same room as him again, and until then, I can drown myself in other work to keep my mind distracted.

He doesn’t offer even another breath as I turn on my heel, making the escape painless until I’m at the door. Just as I’m reaching for the handle, he speaks.

“About last night…” he says with a pause, as if he’s expecting me to turn and give him my attention.

I do—reluctantly, begrudgingly—doing everything in my power to keep a straight, unbothered face while I’m mentally fuming.

My heart drops when I turn to find him looking up at me instead of at his computer screen, eyes soft and earthy, and leaning more toward the green hue as he meets mine. Grounded, but warm.

“Yes, Mr. Ralph…?” I ask, my voice level, not giving away the chaos in my racing heart.

How am I supposed to function when he looks at me like that? So much intensity…so much fire…especially for someone who usually remains cool. His greenish-blue eyes belie his indifference, the only part of his entire being that seems alive.

What’s worse is that meeting those eyes takes me back to last night, at the gala, when he watched me walk into the hall as if he was counting my every step until I reached him.

It was that exact moment that made me forget how much I despise him, how much I hate him, and led me to that dream in the first place.

And just like I lost myself last night, I am losing myself right now, and I can’t help it.

The man looks like the Greek gods carved him, meant to be in the pages of a glossy magazine, where his ethereal features could be photographed and studied in history books that depict natural, God-given beauty.

“Nothing,” he says coolly, and returns his eyes to the screen.

I’m left frozen on the spot, brows furrowing with confusion.

What about last night?

What the—

I’m out the door, pursing my lips in irritation as I march to my office across from his, huffing and puffing and fuming under my breath, because, “What the fuck?” I mumble the question under my breath as I set the file down, my movements not betraying the way I’m feeling since he can see me through the clear glass.

I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me crumble under the weight of his indifference or his confusing behavior.

Or that dream I had last night…

The lingering memory is as brutal as the man himself, the man I’ve hated since the first day I met him. I’ve been working for him for four years, and I’ve managed to keep my thoughts at bay.

Until last night.

There was certainly something in his eyes—a flicker, a glint, a drop of his guard—that made it seem like he had a heart.

But I must have imagined it, because it’s gone now.

If I’m meant to get through this day without losing my sanity or the patience I’ve built like armor to deal with my boss, then I have to forget all about that dream—the one in which he’d complimented my dress, and I’d folded enough for him to slide his hand under it.

The only trouble is that my mind doesn’t seem to cooperate with the hatred in my heart, and it’s nearly impossible to stop thinking about that dream when he’s so close to me.

Dear God…

How am I going to get through the morning?