Page 1 of Captivated By Alphas 1, Fated (The Blood Moon Chronicle #4)

Iwoke at four thirty-seven in the morning, which is objectively a ridiculous time to be awake during summer break. The pale blue-gray light of dawn barely filtered through my curtains, and I lay there staring at Jace Carmichael’s face.

Those intense blue eyes seemed to pierce right through me, holding secrets and promises I could only dream about.

His sculpted jawline cast shadows across his throat in the dim light, the faint stubble adding a rugged edge to his otherwise flawless features.

My gaze traced the perfect curve of his lips—those lips that had starred in my most private fantasies—curved into that devastating half smile that made my stomach flutter.

His tan top clung to his broad shoulders, hinting at the magnificent physique beneath. The morning light played across his golden skin, highlighting the strong column of his throat and the subtle hollow at the base that practically begged to be tasted.

I shifted slightly, breath catching as I imagined how it would feel to be wrapped in those powerful arms, pressed against that perfect body, feeling his heat and strength surrounding me.

If I just reached out, I could run my fingers through his dark hair, feel the warmth of his skin, maybe even taste those perfect lips…

My heart raced as I studied him, drinking in every detail—the way his dark lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, the defined line of his collarbone just visible at the edge of his top. In this light, he looked almost otherworldly, too perfect to be real.

And he wasn’t. Not really. The Jace Carmichael I was staring at was just the massive Night Hunter poster dominating my wall where he looked unfairly gorgeous while pretending to hunt supernatural creatures. Ironic, considering he was technically my landlord.

My room was a shrine to my embarrassing obsession with the Carmichael family.

Jace’s action movie posters shared wall space with his cousins’ media—Adrian’s indie film artwork and Cole’s tech magazine covers.

Not that I’d spent hours arranging them for maximum aesthetic impact or anything. That would be pathetic.

Almost as pathetic as being wide awake because I’d made the catastrophic mistake of checking the estate staff schedule one last time before bed. There it was, in Mom’s neat handwriting: J. Carmichael arrival - approx. 4 PM.

Jace Carmichael. In person. Today.

I’d been living on the Carmichael estate for five years, ever since Grandma Helen had to move into Sunset Pines retirement home.

Before that, we’d lived in Seattle where I could be close to my doctors and therapy sessions.

Nine years of healing from the car accident that killed my biological parents and left me with scars both visible and hidden.

Most of the physical ones had faded now, but sometimes I still woke up tasting smoke and hearing metal crunch.

Five years on this estate, and somehow—through what I could only assume was divine intervention or cosmic conspiracy—I’d never once crossed paths with the eldest Carmichael brother.

Sheena? Constantly. David and Paul? Practically my annoying older brothers at this point.

But Jace and his cousins Adrian and Cole remained mythical creatures, known only through media and Sheena’s casual stories about her “impossibly perfect brother and cousins.”

“This is pathetic,” I informed my ceiling, which had no comment on my predicament. “He’s just a person. Who happens to be obscenely attractive. And talented. And rich. And your technical employer.”

I grabbed my phone from the nightstand, wincing at the brightness as I pulled up social media.

Sheena’s latest post showed her in Paris, posing in front of the Eiffel Tower with a group of impossibly chic fashion people.

The caption read: Fashion Week finale! Missing home but living for these moments! ???

At least she wouldn’t be here to witness my inevitable humiliation when I met her brother. Small mercies.

I scrolled mindlessly, eventually landing on Jace’s official account. His latest post was from three days ago—a behind-the-scenes shot from his newest film, looking unfairly gorgeous in tactical gear, that signature half smile making my stomach do stupid flips even through a screen.

“Get it together, Harper,” I muttered, tossing my phone aside. “He’s just a guy. A famous, gorgeous guy who probably doesn’t even know you exist.”

I tried closing my eyes again, but my brain had other plans—specifically, running through every possible scenario of our first meeting, each more mortifying than the last. By the time my alarm went off at seven thirty, I’d managed maybe forty-five minutes of actual sleep and had imagined approximately seventeen ways I could embarrass myself in front of Jace Carmichael.

I dragged myself into the shower, letting the cold water shock my system into something resembling alertness.

The mirror revealed the expected disaster: dark circles under my eyes, my platinum-blond hair sticking up in defiance of gravity, and a complexion that screamed “I spent the night having anxiety instead of sleeping.”

“Perfect,” I told my reflection. “Very impressive. He’ll definitely be stunned by your zombie chic aesthetic.”

I’d just pulled on a clean t-shirt and shorts when my phone erupted with my mom’s ringtone.

“Please tell me you’re awake and functioning,” Mom said without preamble, her voice carrying that particular edge that meant she was already on her third coffee.

“Depends on your definition of functioning,” I replied, attempting to locate a pair of socks that matched. “If you mean ‘conscious and capable of basic human tasks,’ then yes. If you mean ‘ready to face Jace Carmichael without spontaneously combusting,’ then absolutely not.”

“Very funny. We need you at the main house ASAP. It’s all hands on deck today.”

I glanced at the clock: eight seventeen. “I thought he wasn’t coming until four? He’s flying into Seattle this morning and then driving up, right?”

“Yes, but Madi’s in full preparation mode, and she’s drafted you for special projects. Something about your ‘artistic eye’ being needed.”

“My artistic eye is currently bloodshot from lack of sleep.”

“Eliot James Harper,” she said, using my full name—never a good sign, “this is important. You know how much the Carmichaels mean to this family.”

Guilt trip: successful. The Carmichaels had given my parents stable employment for decades, welcomed me into their home when Grandma couldn’t care for me anymore, and created a scholarship fund that was putting me through design school. The least I could do was show up and fold some fancy towels.

“I’ll be there in twenty,” I promised.

I changed into my least offensive jeans and a clean black t-shirt, ran a hand through my hopeless hair, and headed for the kitchen.

Dad was already at the table, nursing a cup of coffee and reading something on his tablet. Thomas Harper looked up with the serene expression of a man who’d been awake for hours. As the estate’s groundskeeper, he operated on some ungodly schedule that involved communing with plants at dawn.

“Morning, sunshine,” he said, his eyes crinkling with amusement at my disheveled state. “Your mother called. Twice.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” I mumbled, pouring coffee into a travel mug. “Apparently, my artistic eye is required for some emergency napkin folding or whatever.”

“It’s a compliment,” Dad said mildly. “Madi doesn’t trust just anyone with the aesthetic details.”

“Lucky me.” I grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl. “Are you heading up too?”

“Already been. Had to check on the east garden; there’s a ceremony there next weekend. I’m heading back after I finish this report.” He nodded toward his tablet. “Want to ride together?”

“That would save me having to interact with my car before caffeine,” I admitted. My ancient sedan required a specific combination of sweet-talking and threats to start on cold mornings.

“Meet you outside in five.”

The drive from our cottage to the main house took a solid ten minutes, winding through vineyards and gardens that made up the sprawling Carmichael estate.

Dad filled me in on the latest estate gossip, mostly about which plants were blooming early and which deer had been eating his prized tulips. For him, this constituted high drama.

The mansion came into view as we rounded the final curve, and as always, it took my breath away.

Three stories of stone and glass perched on a gentle rise, surrounded by immaculate gardens and backed by dense forest. The morning sun turned the windows to gold, making the whole structure look like something from a fairy tale.

A deep, gentle “woof” greeted us before we even reached the kitchen entrance.

Titan, the estate’s enormous Newfoundland, had materialized from his usual post by the grand staircase to welcome us.

Despite weighing nearly as much as I did, he moved with surprising grace, pressing his massive head against my hip in greeting.

“Morning, big guy.” I scratched behind his ears, earning a pleased rumble. “Already on duty?”

“He’s been waiting by the door since dawn,” Dad said with a knowing smile. “I think he knew you were coming in early today.”

Titan took his self-appointed role as estate guardian seriously, though his idea of “guarding” mostly involved following select people around and looking imposing while begging for treats. He’d adopted me as one of his charges the day I moved to the estate, much to Duncan’s endless amusement.

The kitchen was already in full swing when I entered, a choreographed chaos of staff preparing for the day ahead.

At the center of it all stood Duncan Campbell, the Scottish chef who’d been with the Carmichaels longer than I’d been alive.

His bushy eyebrows were drawn together in concentration as he piped something delicate onto a tray of pastries.