Page 25 of Ocean's Whisper

"That's... complicated." He shifted, reaching for his coffee cup and taking a deliberate sip to avoid her penetrating gaze."The relationship between shifters and humans has a long, often bloody history."

"You're avoiding the question," she pointed out, leaning forward with those piercing blue eyes that seemed to see right through his defenses.

"With good reason." His voice dropped an octave, suddenly all alpha. "What matters now is your immediate situation. The organized cleanup is standard procedure for disasters—humans do it all the time. And frankly, I don't give a damn what rumors circulate about my motives."

He stood, walking around the table until he loomed over her chair. His shadow fell across her upturned face as he placed both hands on the armrests, caging her in without touching.

"My top priority is you, Isolde. Getting those powers under control before you accidentally kill someone. Helping you understand what being Luna to the Seafang pack means."

Her scent filled his lungs, and it took every ounce of his centuries-old control not to bury his face in the curve of her neck.

Her shoulders squared beneath her blue blouse. "Well, since I apparently don't have a job to go to anymore, I guess I have some free time."

"You'll have plenty to do," he said firmly. "Meeting the pack. Learning your responsibilities. Most importantly, mastering those water powers before another wave destroys more than just buildings."

Her eyes suddenly flashed dangerously. "You know, you're extremely bossy for someone I just met yesterday. Do you always dictate every moment of a woman's day, or am I getting special treatment?"

"I'm alpha," he growled as if that explained everything—which to him, it did.

"No, you're controlling," she fired back. "And honestly? It's a little creepy."

The words hit him hard. His wolf reared back, howling in outrage. In three hundred years, no one had dared speak to him with such disrespect—such a fundamental misunderstanding of his nature and position.

He stepped away from her so quickly that her hair fluttered from the movement. His jaw clenched so tightly, he felt a muscle jump in his cheek.

"Henderson!" His voice thundered through the terrace, bringing his estate manager rushing through the French doors. "Miss Morgan is to have unrestricted access to every part of this estate. Whatever she needs, whenever she needs it."

The manager nodded, clearly startled by the rare display of visible anger from his boss.

Nereus reached into his pocket and retrieved a set of keys, tossing them onto the table where they slid to a stop in front of Isolde.

"The silver Aston Martin in the east garage," he said, his voice deceptively calm while rage boiled beneath the surface. "Go wherever you want, whenever you want. You are no prisoner here. And I am no creep."

His eyes—now glinting with flecks of turquoise as his wolf pushed against his control—locked with hers. "But know this, Isolde Morgan. When that power inside you surges again—and it will—when the ocean responds to your fear or anger or whatever emotion you can't control, you'll wish I had been more 'controlling.'"

With that, he turned on his heel and strode from the terrace, his footsteps echoing against the marble flooring. The wolf inside him howled for him to return, to claim his mate, to make her understand—but his pride wouldn't allow it.

Creepy?The word scorched his mind like acid. Three centuries of leadership, of sacrifice, of waiting for his Luna—only for her to label him a predator for trying to protect her. And after he'd arranged her favorite breakfast. After he'd committed millions to rebuilding her workplace.

He stalked through the east wing, past startled staff members who quickly flattened themselves against walls to avoid his path. The scent of their fear only fueled his rage. They knew better than to approach an alpha in this state.

He punched in the code to his private training room with such force that the keypad screen nearly cracked. The massive oak doors swung open to reveal a state-of-the-art combat facility that blended ancient tradition with modern technology. Weapons that had belonged to his ancestors—swords, axes, and staffs dating back to Viking times—lined one wall. The polished hardwood floor gleamed beneath recessed lighting.

"Computer, combat simulation level nine," he growled, yanking his shirt over his head and tossing it aside. His muscles rippled beneath his bronze skin as he rolled his shoulders.

"Warning: Level nine requires protective gear," the AI system responded.

"Override." His voice cut through the air like a blade. "Authorization Alpha-1."

He selected a wooden staff from the wall, testing its balance with a quick spin that blurred through the air. The familiar weight centered him as holographic opponents materialized around him—fighters programmed with the combat techniques of every martial discipline known to mankind. And a few known only to shifters.

The first opponent lunged. Nereus pivoted and struck, the staff connecting with bone-breaking force. Three centuries of anger from waiting for a Luna, who clearly despised him, channeled through his strike.

"You want to see controlling?" he snarled as he whirled and caught another attacker with a sweeping blow that would have shattered a real human's ribcage. "I could have ordered you confined to this castle. Could have forced the mate bond."

A holographic blade sliced across his shoulder, drawing blood. Nereus barely felt it, his wolf healing already initiating as he spun and struck back with savage precision.

"Instead, I give you freedom. I give you fucking car keys and rebuild your workplace."

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