The Howlcrest Werewolves Legacy
Chapter 18: In His Shirt

Chapter 18: In His Shirt

OLIVIA POV

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"You should shower, eat, and rest. It’s not easy being a thief."

The words hit me like a slap.

I blinked up at him, my entire body stiffening. "What?"

Was he mocking me? Did he think this was funny?

"I’m not staying here," I snapped, forcing my voice to stay steady. My fists clenched at my sides as I glared at him.

But he just smirked, his expression unreadable yet far too knowing. "Yet, you can’t leave."

I sucked in a sharp breath.

The audacity.

The arrogance.

His red eyes gleamed like embers, watching me with that maddening mixture of amusement and certainty. As if he had already decided everything. As if my protests were nothing more than background noise.

"Tomorrow, we’ll announce our bond." His voice was smooth, deep, and authoritative.

I frowned. "Excuse me?"

Then he said it.

"I pick you, Olivia."

I felt those words in my bones, heavy as stone, sinking into the pit of my stomach.

For a second, I could do nothing but stare.

He was looking at me as if he expected me to blush, to fawn, to flutter my lashes and swoon at his feet. As if the simple fact that he had chosen me should be enough to shackle me to his world.

I slid off the bed, standing my ground, and met his gaze sharply.

His smirk faltered for the briefest moment. His red eyes darkened, like a flame deprived of air, flickering with something... primal.

I ignored the way my heart stuttered at the sight.

"I don’t want to be picked by you."

A slow, knowing smile stretched across his face. Before I could take a step back, his fingers caught my chin, tilting my face up to his.

"Olivia," he murmured.

There was something in the way he said my name, something possessive and certain. A declaration. A claim.

I clenched my jaw. "Let. Me. Go."

But he didn’t.

His grip wasn’t painful, just firm—like he knew I wasn’t going anywhere.

"You and your people have taken it upon yourselves to control mine, growing your riches while caging us in," I seethed, my voice shaking with anger. "I will not be part of that system. Not through this twisted arrangement you’ve created."

His eyes burned into mine.

"Alphas mating with humans?" I scoffed. "That’s not possible."

But the smirk returned. "Oh, it is, O," he said, voice rich with amusement. "And you will be the first to prove it to everyone who doubts."

A chill ran down my spine.

The weight of his words settled over me like chains.

He was serious. Dead serious.

"Now," he continued, his hand falling away from my chin, "be a good girl and enjoy your night."

And just like that, he turned and left, shutting the heavy door behind him.

I stared at the space where he had stood, my heart hammering violently against my ribs.

Oh my God, he’s so charismatic.

The thought slipped in before I could stop it, before I could shove it into the deepest, darkest corner of my mind where it belonged.

I shook my head, shoving the feeling away.

There was no point dwelling on it. I needed to think. I needed a plan.

But as I stood there, damp from the rain, my clothes still clinging to me uncomfortably, exhaustion won.

I sighed, peeling off my muddy, rain-soaked clothes. The fabric stuck to my skin, heavy and cold, and I shivered as I stripped down.

The bathroom was warm, the steam curling into the air like a gentle embrace. The moment the hot water cascaded over me, I nearly groaned.

It felt too good.

The kind of good that made you forget where you were.

The kind of good that made you weak.

I washed quickly, scrubbing the dirt from my skin, trying to focus on the fact that this was a prison, not a sanctuary. But I couldn’t lie to myself—the place was absurdly comfortable.

Even the soap smelled like something luxurious and woodsy, a blend of cedar and something darkly sweet.

Ugh. I hated it.

When I stepped out, warm and clean, my eyes landed on the bed.

A tray of food sat on the bedside table—still steaming, as if it had been brought in mere minutes ago.

And on the bed, a single cream-colored shirt was neatly folded.

Just a shirt.

My stomach twisted.

When did they bring this in?

And why was it just a shirt?

I hesitated before lifting the soft polyester fabric. It was large, oversized enough to swallow my frame, and when I brought it closer, I caught a faint, lingering scent clinging to it.

Masculine. Warm. Subtle but unmistakable.

My fingers curled around the fabric.

No way.

I refused to acknowledge that my body had the audacity to react to something as stupid as a damn shirt.

But oh my word

I closed my eyes and inhaled.

Mmm.

Wait—what the fuck am I doing?

I snapped my eyes open, disgusted with myself.

Shaking my head violently, I yanked the shirt over my head, ignoring the way the fabric draped over me, hanging loosely around my thighs.

Then realization hit me like a freight train.

I had washed my underwear.

And I had nothing to wear underneath this damn shirt.

Shit.

I folded my arms, scowling at the betrayal of my own instincts.

There was no way I was admitting—even to myself—that I was sitting here in nothing but his shirt.

No.

Not happening.

I sat on the bed, facing the bedside table, and forced myself to focus on something else.

The food.

The escape.

The fact that I hated werewolves.

Not on the way my body felt traitorously warm and comfortable in a place I wasn’t supposed to be.

And certainly not on the fact that Tristan’s scent was all over me.

I heard werewolves have a stronger sense of smell, does it also make them smell divine?

Sigh

I need to get out of here.