Page 99 of The Alpha's Fallen Spell
I need to deal with Michael’s body before anyone else sees it. The last thing Fiona needs is to face questions from local authorities about why she shot a man in her café.
Downstairs, the scene looks even more stark in the early morning light. Michael’s corpse lies sprawled near the counter, blood pooled beneath him. The metallic smell makes my nose wrinkle, but it’s the destruction that bothers me more—overturned chairs, scattered papers, all evidence of violence in Fiona’s sanctuary.
I pull out my encrypted phone and dial.
“Commander,” comes the immediate response. Lieutenant Hayes, one of my most trusted men.
“I need a cleanup crew. Now. And keep it quiet.”
“Location?”
I give him the address. “Bring Marcus and Thompson. No one else. This stays between us.”
“Understood, sir. ETA fifteen minutes.”
While I wait, I right the overturned furniture and gather the scattered items. It’s futile—the blood will need professional attention—but I can’t stand seeing Fiona’s space violated like this.
My soldiers arrive in an unmarked van, pulling into the alley behind the café. Hayes takes one look at the scene and nods grimly.
“Deliver this body to Queen Maya,” I instruct him.
The three men work with military precision in efficient silence, wrapping the body, scrubbing the blood. Within an hour, there’s no evidence that anything happened here.
“The smell will fade in a few days,” Hayes reports. “We’ve used industrial cleaners that eliminate biological traces. Any forensic investigation would come up empty.”
“Good. Maintain the perimeter watch. I want to know if a butterfly lands on this block without authorization.”
“Yes, sir.”
After they leave, I return upstairs to find Fiona thrashing in bed, caught in the grip of a nightmare. Her face is twisted in anguish, small whimpers escaping her lips. Sweat beads on her forehead despite the cool morning air.
The sight guts me. Even here, even after everything she has accomplished, she can’t escape the demons that chase her in her sleep.
I approach cautiously, not wanting to startle her awake. I slip off my shirt and pants and slide back into bed, gathering her gently into my arms and holding her against my chest, all the while whispering reassurances.
“You’re safe,” I murmur against her hair. “I’m here. No one can hurt you.”
Her struggles gradually subside as my presence penetrates the nightmare. Her breathing evens out, the tension leaving her muscles as she instinctively curls into my warmth.
We stay like that for several minutes before her eyes flutter open. For a moment, she’s disoriented, unsure where she is. Gradually, awareness engulfs her features—first recognition, then embarrassment as memories of last night surface.
Her body tenses, and she tries to pull away, but I hold her tenderly.
“Easy,” I say. “It’s just me.”
She stops squirming but doesn’t relax. “Let me go.”
Color floods her cheeks as she becomes fully aware of our position—both of us mostly naked, my arms wrapped around her, her body pressed against mine. She tries to cover herself with the sheet, suddenly shy.
“What are you still doing here?”
I blink at her question. “Did you want me to leave?” I ask.
Her silence tells me everything, but I refuse to be gutted. “We need to talk about what happened,” I begin, but she’s already pulling away, climbing out of bed and reaching for a robe.
“I should make breakfast,” she says, not meeting my eyes.
I watch her flee into the hallway, recognizing the deflection for what it is. But I’m not about to let her retreat now, not when we’ve finally broken through the walls between us.
