Page 48 of Stalked By the Alphas
“Oh,” I say, my heart pounding. “That’s okay. I can sleep on the sofa.”
“No, don’t be silly, I will sleep on the sofa. I just wanted you to know that you would be sleeping in my bed.”
“Well, it’s not like I haven’t done that before,” I mutter.
“True,” he says with his eyes narrowed.
The air between us suddenly feels charged with unspoken tension.
Carter busies himself with putting away the groceries, while I stand there like a spare part.
“So,” Carter says, breaking the awkward silence, “why don’t you go upstairs and get settled?”
Grateful for the excuse to escape, I nod and grab mysuitcase. As I climb the stairs, I can feel Carter’s gaze on my back. The weight of it makes me shiver.
The bedroom is large, with a bay window overlooking the street. The bed is pretty much the only thing in here, apart from a built-in wardrobe. I open it, taking a peek inside. Carter’s scent wafts out at me as I see neat rows of suits and more casual attire hung up neatly. There are drawers set into the cupboard, but I don’t peek in there. I wouldn’t want him to do that to me. Suddenly, I remember my hamper and hope to God he doesn’t put the wash on for me. I set my suitcase down and sink onto the edge of the mattress, suddenly even too exhausted to make sure Carter stays well away from my washing.
What am I doing here?The events of the day catch up with me all at once, and I feel tears pricking at my eyes. I pull out the bag of medication, and the dam breaks. How is this my life now?
30
CARTER
Listening out for Hazel,I make sure the door under the stairs is locked up tight. No way can she decide to explore the house and end up in the cellar we made for her prison. There is a good chance she will still end up in there if she doesn’t make good on her end of the pact, which is looming ever closer, but she has the chance to do this the easy way. Every part of me wishes she does this the easy way.
I busy myself making some pasta. It’s about my limit with cooking, but I can’t ask Hazel to cook, so it will have to do.
As I stir the pasta sauce, my mind races with plans and contingencies. Everything hinges on keeping Hazel calm and compliant. The medication should help with that, dulling her senses and making her more pliable. But I need to tread carefully - push too hard, too fast, and she might bolt.
I strain my ears, listening for any sound fromupstairs. The house is quiet except for the bubbling of the pasta pot. Is she okay up there? Should I check on her? I decide not to. She needs space to process everything.
The timer dings, and I drain the pasta, mixing it with the sauce. As I’m plating it up, I hear soft footsteps on the stairs. Hazel appears in the doorway, looking small and vulnerable, clutching the bag from the pharmacy. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and my chest tightens at the sight.
“Perfect timing,” I say, keeping my voice light. “Dinner’s ready.”
She gives me a watery smile. “It smells good. Thanks.”
We sit at the small kitchen table, an awkward silence falling between us. Hazel picks at her food listlessly.
“You should try to eat something,” I urge gently. “The medication works better on a full stomach.”
She nods, taking a small bite. “It’s good,” she murmurs.
“High praise indeed for my culinary skills,” I tease, trying to lighten the mood.
It works, drawing a soft giggle from her. It warms something in my chest. I’ve missed that sound more than I realised. We eat in companionable silence for a few minutes before she gives me a tight smile and returns to picking at her food. I can see the exhaustion etched into every line of her face. The urge to gather her into my arms and protect her from everything is almost overwhelming.
“Why don’t you take your medication and get some rest after dinner?” I suggest. “It’s been a long day.”
Hazel nods gratefully. “That sounds good. Thank you, Carter. For everything.”
Her sincerity catches me off guard. For a moment, I’m transported back to simpler times where there are no schemes or ulterior motives. Just two friends looking out for each other. The weight of everything we’ve done, everything we’re planning to do, settles heavily on my shoulders.
But I push the guilt aside. This is for her own good. She’ll understand eventually.
After dinner, I insist on cleaning up while Hazel takes her medication. She looks relieved at not having to help, which only reinforces how exhausted she must be. As I load the dishwasher, I watch her out of the corner of my eye. She’s staring at the pill bottle, her expression a mix of apprehension and resignation.
“You okay?” I ask softly.
