Page 22 of Stalked By the Alphas
It’s got to be the tablets. It’s the only explanation. After all, there’s no concrete evidence that anyone is actually stalking me or trying to harm me. The photo and card turned out to be figments of my imagination. The masked figure in the alley could have easily been some harmless random man that I made into a sinister figure in my mind.
I step out of the shower, feeling slightly calmer. Wrapping myself in a fluffy towel, I pad back to my bedroom.
I quickly put on my oversized tee, determined to have something to eat and maybe read before trying to get a restful night’s sleep. But before I do that, I have to get rid of the tablets from my system.
Going back to the bathroom, I stare at the toilet. I’ve never made myself sick before. But I know how this works. If I stick my fingers down my throat, my gag reflex will kick in, and I’ll throw up, hopefully getting rid of whatever is left of the tablets in my stomach.
I take a deep breath, steeling myself. This isn’t going to be pleasant, but I need to do it. I need to get these tablets out of my system and clear my head.
Kneeling in front of the toilet, I raise my tremblinghand to my mouth. I hesitate for a moment, then plunge two fingers down my throat. My gag reflex kicks in immediately, and I retch violently, my stomach heaving.
The contents of my stomach splash into the toilet bowl. I cough and splutter, tears streaming down my face as I continue to heave. It’s awful, but I force myself to keep going until I’m sure I’ve emptied my stomach completely.
Finally, I sit back on my heels and wipe my mouth on toilet paper. I feel weak and shaky, but also strangely cleansed. After flushing the toilet, I stand on wobbly legs and rinse my mouth out at the sink.
As I look at my pale reflection in the mirror, I make a vow to myself. No more tablets. No more paranoid thoughts. From now on, I’m going to focus on reality and stop letting my imagination run wild. I will have to deal with my anxiety without a crutch. I can do this. It’s not like I haven’t for years before now.
I make my way downstairs, still feeling a bit unsteady. In the kitchen, I grab another bottle of water and sip it slowly. My stomach feels raw and empty, but I know I need to eat something to keep my strength up.
I settle for some plain toast, nibbling on it as I curl up on the sofa with a book. The familiar words of my favourite novel soothe me, helping to quiet the anxious thoughts still swirling in my mind. It’s too quiet, though, even though I usually like it this way. Tonight, it feels unnerving. I flick the TV on for a bit of background noise and go back to my book.
As I read, my eyelids grow heavy. The emotionaland physical toll of the day catches up with me, and I find myself drifting off. I don’t fight it, pulling the throw over me, hoping that sleep will help reset my frazzled nerves.
14
NOAH
Nighttime is the worst.It’s when all the demons come out to play.
I stare at the laptop, balanced on my knees in this rented house of Carter’s. He seriously needs to get some furniture, but it hasn’t been a priority. He and Zach are staying in the luxurious hotel a few miles away while I’m on surveillance duty. So far, it’s been eventful. I’m guessing the purge she did earlier was because of the herbal tablets. She must be starting to suspect that they are making her feel these spikes in anxiety. She isn’t wrong, but now this causes us a problem. We will have to find another way to get to her. My world has narrowed to these screens, the behavioural patterns they reveal, and the endless psychological analyses that fill my mind.
Sighing, I lean back in the chair and allow myself a moment of reflection. The familiar weight of my watch—a gift from my father on my graduation—sits heavyon my wrist. A reminder of expectations, of duty, of the perfect son I was supposed to be.
Being the son of one of Britain’s most renowned criminal psychologists wasn’t exactly conducive to normal childhood friendships. While other kids were playing in parks, I was being taught to analyse behaviour patterns, to understand the depths of human psychology. My father’s idea of bonding time involved reviewing case studies and attending psychiatric conferences. Even at Oxford, studying psychology, I couldn’t escape the weight of the Forshaw name in academic circles.
But Hazel never cared about any of that.
I pull up the psychological profile I’ve compiled on her over the years. It’s extensive—perhaps obsessively so—but understanding behaviour has always been my way of controlling situations. The familiar patterns and observations scroll past her sleeping patterns, her anxiety triggers, and her relationship dynamics. Every failed relationship is meticulously documented and analysed.
It’s for her own good. To protect her. To keep her safe until we can claim her properly.
But even as I think it, I know it’s a rationalisation.
The truth is messier, darker. Like the research papers I publish under a pseudonym, exploring the psychological implications of multiple alpha-omega bonds. The academic community would have collective fits if they knew their rising star was conducting unofficial studies on pack bonding dynamics. They are nothing if nottraditional. But we knew Hazel was meant to be ours. We knew for as long as I can remember. It was always going to be all of us or none of us.
My fingers drum against the desk as I consider our timeline. Three weeks until her birthday. Three weeks to ensure all possible psychological barriers are dismantled. Three weeks until the pact comes due.
The pact. Even now, five years later, I remember every detail of that night. The way the moonlight painted silver highlights in her hair. The sweet scent of jasmine and vanilla that made my head spin more than the whiskey. The way her pulse jumped under my fingers when I touched her ankle.
Seeing her throwing up and then curling up on the sofa earlier with a book, I haven’t been able to take my eyes off her. I want to go to her. I want to break into her home and watch her reactions as I take my frustrations out on her. Her emotional state is increasingly fragile, likely due to the stress of multiple failed relationships and approaching her twenty-fifth year unmated. It’s a dangerous combination, but one we can use.
Carter’s been pushing for more subtlety, but I prefer more aggressive action. Small adjustments, careful manipulations, invisible strings pulling everything into place.
Rising from my chair, I walk to the window overlooking the moonlit street. Not too far away, Hazel is sleeping in her cottage, unaware of how long we’ve been watching, waiting, planning.
She thinks she’s been unlucky in love, that there’ssomething wrong with her that drives alphas away. She has no idea that every failed relationship, every ghosted date, and every sudden departure has been carefully orchestrated. We’ve been protecting her from inferior alphas, yes, but more than that, we’ve been preparing her.
Conditioning her to need us.
