Chapter 123: Like He Had Every Right To Claim Me...
A heavy, languid groan slips from my lips, thick with lingering sleep. My mouth is dry, my lips slightly chapped, and I swallow against the uncomfortable roughness in my throat, searching for moisture that isn’t there. My tongue feels strangely heavy, as though it doesn’t quite belong to me.
My eyes open slowly, the weight of exhaustion pressing against my lids. The world swims in and out of focus through a haze of confusion and lingering drowsiness. I blink once. Twice. A third time, trying to anchor myself to something solid.
The ceiling above me is familiar—my ceiling, my room. Soft morning light filters through the curtains, bathing the room in a gentle morning glow.
I’m in my room.
But my body doesn’t feel like mine. Every muscle aches with a deep, unfamiliar soreness. A strange tenderness lingers in places I don’t want to acknowledge, leaving an uneasy knot in the pit of my stomach.
I lift a hand to my temple, pressing my fingers against the dull throb behind my eyes. The pressure grounds me, if only for a moment.
Why does everything hurt?
I try to sit up, bracing my palms against the mattress and pushing myself upright with a strength I don’t fully feel. The moment I shift my weight, a sharp, devastating pain shoots through my lower body—so sudden, so visceral, so real that a gasp escapes my lips before I can stop it.
My entire body stiffens, and I collapse back onto the bed, my breath catching painfully in my throat, my heart pounding against my ribs like a caged bird.
What the hell...
I lie still for a long moment, eyes squeezed shut, trying to steady the rapid, uneven beat of my heart. My back throbs. My hips ache. The pain slowly settles into a relentless throb that refuses to ease.
God...
The memories come back in fragments, sharp and unwelcome, cutting through the fog of my thoughts.
The elevator. The scent—that strange, intoxicating, impossible scent.
The 49th floor. The VIP room.
The click of the door opening behind me. The hand that grabbed my waist, fingers digging into my flesh, pulling me backward into darkness. The heavy thud of the door slamming shut, sealing me in.
The warmth of a body pressed against mine. The heat of breath against my neck. The low, amused voice that curled around me like smoke.
"My Alpha."
My eyes snap open.
The ceiling swims above me, but I’m not seeing it anymore.
I’m seeing darkness.
I’m feeling the press of a stranger’s body against mine, the impossible strength that pinned me in place, the scent that filled my lungs and stole my will.
What the hell was that?
Who was he?
He called me that like he knew me. Like he had every right to claim me, to touch me, to take what he wanted.
And I—I couldn’t fight. I couldn’t resist. My strength, my power, my SS-Class Alpha dominance—it all meant nothing in that room. My body betrayed me, surrendering to the weight of his presence.
How is that possible?
I run a hand through my hair, my fingers catching in the tangles left by sleep.
Was it a dream? A nightmare? A hallucination born of exhaustion and stress?
But the ache in my body is too real. The tenderness in my muscles, the rawness of my throat, the way my lips feel swollen and bruised—it’s all there, vivid and undeniable.
My fingers drift to my neck.
The memory crashes back. Teeth grazing my skin. The sharp sting of a bite. A warm tongue soothing the mark it left. A low voice murmuring against my ear like a promise.
"So... soft, my Alpha."
I feel the slight tenderness beneath my fingertips, the lingering trace of his mouth on my skin.
It wasn’t a dream.
My other hand clenches in the blanket, knuckles white, the fabric twisting beneath my grip.
That bastard...
A soft knock at the door. Gentle. Hesitant. Yet it cuts through the silence like a blade.
The door opens before I can respond. Secretary Nick steps inside, carrying a tray with careful, measured precision. I stare at him, my thoughts still tangled in the fog of last night, struggling to pull myself back from the darkness of memory.
What is he doing here?
He sets the tray on the bedside table with a soft clink. The warm scent of fresh soup drifts through the room, a quiet, ordinary comfort that feels strangely out of place.
I brace a hand against the mattress and try to sit up again. The pain returns the moment I move, twisting my brows despite my best effort to hide it.
Nick notices immediately. Without a word, he picks up two pillows and places them behind my back, adjusting them with careful attention, his movements precise and unhurried.
"Sir... this might be more comfortable."
I shift, leaning back against the pillows, letting them support my weight.
Nick picks up a glass of water from the tray and offers it to me, his hand steady, his gaze unwavering.
"Sir... how are you feeling?"
I don’t answer. My voice feels trapped somewhere in last night’s darkness, in the echo of that voice that called me Alpha like a claim.
I take the glass, my fingers brushing the cool surface, and sip slowly. The water is cold against my raw throat, my dry lips, and the kiss flashes through my mind: hungry lips against mine, demanding, taking, claiming me like I was something to be devoured.
My grip tightens around the glass, knuckles whitening against the clear surface.
Nick’s voice is careful, measured, like he’s walking through a room full of fragile things.
"Sir..."
I look at him.
"What are you doing here?"
Nick adjusts his glasses—a practiced habit, a small pause before he speaks, as if carefully choosing his words.
"Sir, I brought you home from the hotel last night."
My expression shifts. Just a fraction.
"You brought me home?"
He nods. "Last evening, I tried to reach you, but you didn’t answer my calls. So I contacted your secretary. He informed me that you were attending a party at the Heaven Lit Hotel." He pauses briefly. "When you didn’t respond to his calls either, I went there myself."
His voice grows quieter.
"I found you unconscious in one of the rooms."
I look down at the blanket, tracing the pattern of the fabric with my eyes, following the lines and curves as though they hold answers I’m not ready to find. My voice is quiet, barely more than a whisper.
"What floor?"
The question hangs between us, heavy with unspoken meaning.
"49th floor, sir."
The number settles in my chest like a stone, cold and unyielding.
"Was there anyone else in the room?"
"No, sir." His voice remains steady, professional, controlled. "Just you."
My gaze stays lowered.
Just me.
Comments