Under Pressure
Hezzlie
Sapphire-blue eyes glean over my body, starting at the new, expensive shoes James gave me this morning, pausing around my midsection, and then a bit longer at my nonexistent chest before meeting my eyes. He lifts his gaze slightly to take in my hair, and I watch him visibly react to its horrid state, cringing as he fights to keep his face straight again.
I may be wrong about his age. Despite the scowl that has his brows puckered together, and pink lips pulled downward, I don’t think he’s all that older than me. If he’d smile, he might look like a teenager. I try to imagine him in a jovial chuckle, but the image doesn’t come to mind.
I try to picture him naked in a bed with just a thin white sheet over his midsection, and that picture forms perfectly. His glare is now a pair of bedroom eyes….
“What’s your name?”
The same bark he used to call us into the room sends my shoulders lurching back two inches as I pull my head out of the gutter and try to remember how my brain is supposed to connect to my mouth. “Uhm, Hezzlie Stone… sir.” My voice doesn’t sound like it belongs in my throat. I’ve never been timid before. Why am I petrified of this guy?
The sir part does not come naturally, not when I have now reassessed him and think he’s probably closer to twenty-one than thirty. Still, he seems to react positively to my obedience.
I don’t know what this place is or who he is. I don’t think he’s a doctor. Is he a sex-trafficker? An overlord? A mafia king?
He stands, slowly, his chair gliding backward without a sound, like if it dared to squeak he’d toss it out the window. As he makes his way around his desk, I oscillate between taking six steps backward and peeing myself. Thankfully, my legs stand firm, and I manage to keep my eyes steady.
The desk is massive, so there’s nothing on the edge in the center where he plants his massive hands and leans back, his ass, which I can only imagine looks like something sculpted by Michaelangelo, rests on the edge.
“What the fuck happened to your hair?”
I clear my throat, embarrassment likely painting my cheeks pink. It’s better than the sickly white they normally are these days. “They don’t allow us to use regular hairbrushes at Peripheral.”
“At what?” He folds his arms across his chest, and his biceps ripple.
I’m distracted, staring. He clears his throat, and I blink, holding my eyes closed a beat too long. “Uhm, Peripheral. The hospital I was in.”
His expression doesn’t change remotely. “Why were you in there?” It’s a bit of a softer question, and I have to wonder if he really doesn’t know or if this is a test.
“Nightmares,” I say, nodding my head. I’ve had trouble talking about the nature of my dreams to everyone, including James, but something tells me, if there is a follow up question, I will respond.
I don’t think I can ignore him.
“About what?”
And… there it is.
I take a deep breath, dropping my eyes to his shoes. They are the same expensive brand as mine, interestingly enough. “I kept dreaming that I was turning into a… wolf.”
“How old are you?”
Confused, I lift my eyes to meet his. He accepted my response to the first question so easily, like it’s common for people to not only dream that they’re turning into a wolf but for them to break windows and run out into the woods in the middle of the night in pursuit of that dream.
“I’ll be eighteen on October fifteenth.”
“Next week.”
My mouth moves, but no sound comes out. Is it almost my birthday? I haven’t been paying any attention.
“Do you know why you’re here?” He unfolds his arms, and his tone is angry again.
I shake my head.
He squeezes the bridge of his nose, like he’s annoyed that I haven’t guessed, or maybe that James didn’t tell me. I don’t know. “All right. You can go now.” He gives me a dismissive wave and turns to walk back behind his desk.
“Wait.”
The word escapes my lips before I can think it through. When he stops to look at me over his shoulder, I think I may be a dead woman.
“Uhm… can you tell me why I’m here?”
“No.” He keeps walking then, pulling his chair back into position and sitting. “Get out.”
Now, I’m suddenly irritated at his tone, and against my better judgment, I take a few steps closer. “But… this isn’t a hospital, is it?”
“No, it’s not.”
“But… shouldn’t I be in a hospital?”
He opens a file on his desk and begins to casually leaf through the papers like he hasn’t heard me. When I don’t move, he says, “You don’t need a hospital. You’re not sick. However, if you’d like to continue to press your luck, I can arrange for you to be injured. Now, get the fuck out of my office!”
When he shouts, his face scrunches up, and he is no longer beautiful. He looks like a monster, with fiery eyes, and his teeth even seem to elongate.
I don’t need to be told again. Fighting tears, I pivot and rush toward the door, praying I can remember where to find my room. I slam the door behind me and almost run into poor Wilma who is standing there, waiting for me, wringing the hell out of her hands.
“Who–who the fuck is that guy?” I ask her as she envelops me in a hug.
“Come along, dear.” Her tone is soothing. “It will be all right. We’ll get you all cleaned up and fed, and you can get some rest.” She takes my arm and leads me in the direction we’d initially been going before we ran into James.
“Seriously,” I probe. “Who is he? This is his house, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. His family home.” At least she confirms that.
“Is he… some sort of a prince or something?” I don’t know how far we drove, but maybe we’re in another country?
We reach a set of double doors at the far end of the hall, and she pauses. “No, honey. He’s not a prince. He’s… a king. An Alpha king.”
*Rowan”
“Fuck!”
I pound my desk with my fist hard enough to make everything on top of it rattle, including Mara’s picture. Thankfully, this time there’s no dent. I toss the file I’d been pretending to read across the room and then sweep everything else onto the floor–except for Mara’s picture.
Standing, I push my chair back into the wall with the back of my legs and storm across the room to the window. I know James will be in here any moment, and I need to compose myself before he shows up.
No one can know what I’ve just discovered. I have to keep it a secret from everyone.
I wish I could keep it a secret from myself.
Staring out the window, I look toward the mountaintops far in the distance. From here, I can almost make out the highest turrets of Castle Darksky. I imagine Alpha King Solomon sitting there on his throne, petting a fucking cat or something, while Mara is tortured or chained in a dungeon.
This was supposed to be so fucking easy. Find the girl. Get the girl. Trade the girl. Or kill the girl, whichever needed to be done.
But then, Hezzlie Stone walks in here, smelling like freshly fallen rain and evergreen trees, and I know everything just went off the rails.
The urge to bang my head into the window is overwhelming, but I have to keep my wits about me.
I have to carry on with my plan like all is as it should be. If I ever want to see Mara again, I’ve got to bury this revelation way down deep in my gut and pretend it’s not real.
I can do that. I’m an expert at hiding my true feelings behind this mask of disdain.
James knocks on the door, and I slip my normal expression into place, determined not to let him or anyone else know. Before I allow him to enter, I cross back over to my desk and pick up the few items I tossed aside in my distress myself so maybe he won’t know anything is wrong.
Then, I sit down and allow him to enter, determined not to let him or anyone else know the truth.
That Hezzlie Stone is my mate.