MATED TO THE SECRET ALPHA
Chapter 212: Feral Creature

Chapter 212: Feral Creature

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, taking off his shoes... Ryder had left her alone this morning after tiring her out, for important matters.

And he’d just returned.

He turned his head and kissed her forehead. "Yes."

"What now? Do you have a solution for my troubles? Or are we just going to lie here and pretend the heat haze didn’t turn me into a feral creature?" Reana muttered, half teasing, half mortified.

Ryder chuckled, low and rough. "Feral, huh?" He slid his hand slowly down her spine. "You didn’t seem too embarrassed when you were screaming into the bed."

She groaned and buried her face in his neck. "Don’t remind me. I nearly ripped Marcus’s throat out this morning just for looking at me too long."

"You almost ripped my throat out," he replied, smug.

"You liked it."

He grinned. "I did. You’re something else when you’re burning up." He nudged her jaw with his nose until she lifted her head, then kissed her slowly, like he was savoring the quiet. "But I wasn’t pretending anything. I’ll take care of it."

Reana tilted her head. "You can’t stop the heat, Ryder."

"It seems so," he admitted. "I’ve sent for help. She’ll be here in a couple of days. Until then..." he grinned.

She raised a brow, her tone sly. "Oh? So I’m just supposed to crawl into your lap every time my body decides to misbehave?"

His fingers dug gently into her hips. "Exactly that."

Reana rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t hide the tiny smile pulling at her lips. She pressed a kiss to his throat. "You make it sound so simple."

"It is simple," Ryder said, voice low and firm. "You’re mine, my Luna. And I take care of what’s mine."

Her heart tripped a little at that. Not the possessiveness—she was used to that with Ryder—but the way he said it. Like it was a fact written into his bones.

"It’s not easy. My body is tired."

He turned fully toward her, cupping her cheek gently. "I know it is," he murmured, his thumb brushing the corner of her lips. "But we don’t have another choice right now."

She exhaled slowly, her lashes fluttering as she leaned into his touch. "I hate this weakness."

"You know you’re not weak," Ryder said, brow furrowing. "You’ve held yourself together longer than anyone would."

She didn’t respond at first. She just looked at him, eyes dark and glassy with exhaustion and unshed tears of frustration. Then, quietly, she said. "I hate that bastard."

His expression softened, and he leaned in to kiss her forehead again. "I hate him more," he said against her skin. "I wish to kill him."

She closed her eyes and exhaled shakily. A lone tear rolled down her right cheek. "I hate crying, too."

It was the first tear she’d shed after three years. And she hated that she had to cry because of heat. Because of a mate she loathed.

"You’re not crying," he said, pulling her gently into his chest, wrapping his arms around her bare back. "You’re just breathing a little too heavy."

A soft, breathy laugh escaped her, muffled against his collarbone. "You’re ridiculous."

"And you’re mine," he whispered, kissing the top of her head.

They sat like that in silence for a moment—his arms wrapped tight around her, her body curled into his warmth, the heat of the room now softened by his steady presence. The haze was lifting, little by little. Not gone, not completely, but manageable. Bearable at least. Though she knew it would come back any moment.

He shifted slightly, pressing her closer. "You hungry?"

She nodded into his chest. "Starving. And I need a bath."

...

The masked man was seen without his mask in his quarters. He was bare-chested with black pants on his waist. The late morning light filtered through the windows, melting the snow that the window had accumulated previously.

The room was quiet but tense, like the breath before a storm.

He stood in front of the dartboard nailed to the stone wall. Picking up a silver dart from the lots on the stone table, he murmured.

"She’ll come," he said, flicking the dart with a snap of his wrist.

Thud.

Bullseye.

"She won’t," he murmured, his jaw clenched. Another dart flew.

Thud.

Bullseye.

His eyes darkened, voice lower. "She will..."

Thud.

Bullseye.

He stood still, breathing hard. The next dart in his hand trembled slightly, not from fear—but anticipation so sharp it bordered on madness.

He stepped forward, plucked all three darts from the board with slow, reverent fingers.

"She’ll come because she has to," he whispered to the air, as if speaking to some unseen force. "Because I’m the only one who can quench her heat."

He tossed the next dart. This time, it split the center of the bullseye.

Just as he was about to pick another, the space beside him stirred and a hand shot out before a full body could.

Ryder.

His hand clamped around the masked man’s throat with the speed of a striking snake.

But the man didn’t flinch.

In a blink, the dart in his hand vanished, only to reappear, shimmering wickedly close to Ryder’s neck.

With sharp reflex, Ryder tilted his head back, narrowly avoiding the lethal tip. The dart sliced through the air, grazing his collarbone instead, leaving a thin, burning line of red.

With a swift twist, Ryder aimed to slam the man into the wall, but the figure melted out of his grasp like smoke, landing silently a few paces away, crouched and ready.

But Ryder vanished from his spot and appeared behind him, sending a brutal kick into his rib.

Crack.

The sound of cracking bones echoed in the room, but the man didn’t whimper. It didn’t even seen like he felt it. That kick could have killed anyone. But it didn’t nothing to this man.

However, the kick successfully slammed him into a wall. But he rose and stood tall. His cracked bones remended themselves with an unsettlingly unnatural ease, his movements fluid as if the pain meant nothing at all.

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