Chapter Seven – Kayla #2
Out of everything I could say, out of every explanation I could give him that wouldn’t rile him up further, I end up saying the one thing I most definitely should never: “You look good.” And then I realize what I just said, and who I said it to, that I fumble and start to ramble on, “Messy, yes. Not like yourself, but good.”
Crap. I’m digging myself into an even deeper hole here.
His unreadable expression morphs into one that is clear: confusion. “How can I look good and not too good at the same time?” The way his dark eyes study me right then makes me feel like he can see into my soul, like he’s this close to discovering my secret.
All I can say to his question is a world class “Um.”
Bradford tilts his head at me, as if taking me in in a new light—not good. “You… you really are small for a beta.” If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s noticing it for the first time, which is dumb, because he commented on my size practically the moment we met.
But maybe, like me noticing how oddly attractive he is when he’s unruffled and messy, he’s noticing my size again. Definitely not good.
I fiddle with my hands between us. “Yeah. That’s what everyone says.”
His eyes squint, and it’s only because I’m so locked on his face that I see him tilt his head even more. He inhales through his nostrils, as if he’s trying to smell me. “You don’t really have a scent, either. I’ve never met a beta before who doesn’t have a scent.”
Feeling like I need to defend myself, I say, “I have a scent. It’s just… very faint.”
Bradford lets out a sound from his chest, and I can’t pinpoint what that sound is. A hum? A thoughtful hmm? The lowest, gentlest growl I’ve ever heard in my life? I don’t know, but it’s not an awful sound, whatever it is. It makes my hands feel clammy in weird ways.
I wish I could hear what he’s thinking when he’s looking at me. I wish I was a mind-reader, so I’d know whether or not my secret is still safe, or if he suspects I’m lying. A beta who doesn’t crack five feet tall, with no scent to speak of; what are the odds of that?
For a moment, for just the quickest of moments, I wonder if he’s going to try to touch me. To lift one of those hands and bring it toward me. I don’t know what I’d do if he did. Probably just stay frozen, rooted where I am right now. Not a good thing.
But then Bradford says something I’m not expecting, something that turns the confusion around on me. “Promise me, if you ever have to meet with my father in person, you won’t do it alone.”
That… came out of nowhere. “What,” I start, but he doesn’t let me finish.
“Don’t meet with him alone.” He emphasizes each word this time, and then he says, “You’re so small, Kayla, so breakable.
He might’ve chosen you to rub salt in the wound when it comes to me, but it would be remiss of me to not warn you of him.
He is… not the kind of alpha you should ever meet alone. ”
Is he warning me about his father? Has to be. What else could it be other than a warning? The question remains, though: why would he care enough to warn me? Ever since I started, he’s acted as though my mere presence here bothers him.
When I remain silent, Bradford takes a measured step closer to me.
Instead of two feet between us, there’s now only one, if that.
“You have to know how weak you are. If he wants something from you, nothing you can do will stop him from taking it, so I’ll say it again: never meet with my father alone. Do you understand?”
The only thing I can do is nod. Nod and wonder why he saw fit to tell me this now.
I did get a weird vibe off his father when I met with him before.
It honestly shouldn’t surprise me to know he’s a bad guy; most higher-ups in companies like that probably are.
You don’t get to be so high up without stepping on a few people and using them up until they’re dry.
And alphas, especially über alphas? They typically act like the world owes them everything.
“Good,” he whispers. “He would eat you up, swallow you whole, and if you survived, no one would believe you.” He doesn’t say a word more, turning away from me and leaving his office.
Something heavy sits in my throat as I watch him go.
The weight of what he told me pushes down upon my shoulders, an invisible pressure that’s only made worse with how bluntly he put it.
He must not like his father, if he’s warning me about him.
But, again, if he’s warning me, it also means his father has a pattern, and Bradford doesn’t want to see me become another statistic.
Why would he care, though? Why, out of the blue, would he warn me of something like that? I’m more confused than ever, and as I stand there alone, I get more and more confused.
Well, obviously I don’t ever want to meet with Mr. Bentley alone. I’d be stupid not to heed Bradford’s words. It might be the last thing I ever do, if so.
I don’t know what makes me follow him, if it’s the unanswered questions or if it’s because of the tone he used when he warned me about his father—a tone like that is telling, like he knows first-hand what his father is capable of.
It’s a mistake. I shouldn’t follow him. I should just drop it. Hell, I should make the alpha breakfast or something. Yeah, that’s a good excuse. I’ll follow him and ask him what he wants to eat. I’m no chef, but I can whip up pancakes or scrambled eggs.
That extra sleep must’ve turned on my nose a bit, because I’m able to follow Bradford’s trail like a bloodhound. My nose gets faint whiffs of musk and clove. I imagine, if I nourished my body correctly, his scent would be overpowering to me.
I follow the trail to a staircase at the far end of the hall and make my way up, into unfamiliar territory. All the while, my mind screams about how bad of an idea this is, but I can’t seem to switch myself off. It’s like something else has taken over me, instinct or something. I can’t explain it.
On the second floor of the house, a long hallway stretches out before me. I head down it, my nose leading the way. On my right and left, I pass many empty rooms; here and there is a bed or two, but some are downright vacant, as if they haven’t been touched in years.
I stop only when I reach what must be Bradford’s room.
The door is cracked, and I stop myself before pushing it all the way open.
For some reason, my heart is beating much faster in my chest than it was minutes ago—not unusual when it comes to me, but this time, that rapidly-beating heart is not accompanied by lightheadedness.
No, it’s due to something else, and it makes me feel… weird.
Through the three-inch crack, I see movement, and I catch my breath. Suddenly I’m thankful he can’t smell me, otherwise he’d know I’m there. The jig would be up, I’d be found out, and I’d have no way to explain myself without sounding like a fool.
It might technically be spying, or snooping, or generally just being creepy, but I peer through that crack and spot Bradford deep in the room. There must be an attached bathroom. I hear the faint sounds of water running, but my mind is not on that water, not when I see what I see next.
Bradford is undressing. With his back to the door, he’s totally unaware of me peeking through the crack. When I peer through, he’s already taken off his suit jacket and is in the process of unbuttoning the buttons on his sleeves, near his wrists.
Oh, this is bad. This is so, so bad. I need to quietly walk away and pray he won’t hear me. If he catches me here, I don’t know what I could possibly say that won’t sound crazy.
But I literally can’t move. I’m rooted in place where I am, watching as he moves to untuck that shirt. The tie comes off next, then he goes to the buttons on that shirt, starting at the ones near his neck. Button by button he undoes his shirt.
This is so creepy. I need to stop peeping like I’m interested in seeing what he has beneath his clothes. I’m not.
Am I?
I bite my bottom lip as he takes off that long-sleeved shirt, and when he does, I don’t see what I thought I would.
I mean, yes, the man has a well-defined back and shoulders, the kind of shoulders you would imagine an über alpha would have, but at the same time, there’s more. There’s so much more, and it’s the more that makes the world spin around me.
His back is littered in scars. Old wounds, long since healed over, but thick and garish in their placement. White risen scars line his flesh, some longer than others. Some in a crisscross, not all of them in the same direction.
Scars like that you don’t give yourself, nor do you get from an animal. No, you only get scars like that in that sheer volume one way.
Someone gave them to him.
And with the way he was talking about his father earlier, there’s only one possible culprit.
I only stare at his scarred back through the crack for a few seconds before I move and lean against the wall beside the door. My chest feels heavier than it was, and I cannot get those scars out of my head.
I thought I knew. I thought I understood.
I thought I had the whole picture: his father wanted to punish him for what he did, for how stupid his kidnapping plan was.
I thought that was it. That, maybe, his father was the type of person who was never satisfied with anything, and so Bradford had spent his whole life trying to live up to those expectations.
But someone who would do that to their own kid, to anyone… there’s no possible way you could ever live up to their expectations of you.
Fuck. I guess the same thing could be said of me and Jeremy. When my brother gets mad, he lets me know it, but his wounds only bruise. They don’t scar. After a while they heal, and each time I become a shadow of what I was before, smaller and smaller until I’m barely a person myself.
Maybe that’s why Bradford and his attitude never really bothered me. I get it. I get it so much more than the majority of people ever could. We’re not the same, but we might as well be.
We’ve been given shit hands, and time and time again we’re forced to play with the hands we’re dealt.
Each time we lose, and each time it becomes harder and harder to keep playing.
But what else can we do? What other choice do we have?
You can’t fight the inevitable, and people like Mr. Bentley and Jeremy…
They never lose, even if it means they have to rig the game.