Page 2 of Captivated By Alphas 1, Fated (The Blood Moon Chronicle #4)

“Morning, Duncan,” I called, heading for the coffee station to refill my already-depleted mug.

“There he is!” Duncan boomed, his accent thickening as it always did when he was cooking. “Come here, lad.”

I obediently approached the massive island where he worked, knowing resistance was futile. Duncan immediately pushed a plate toward me, a still-warm scone glistening with sugar and bursting with blueberries.

“Eat,” he commanded. “You’re nothing but skin and bones. How am I supposed to face your mother if I let you waste away?”

“I had an apple,” I protested weakly, even as I took the plate.

Duncan’s scoff could have withered crops. “An apple? An apple is what you feed horses and doctors you’re trying to avoid. It’s not breakfast for a growing boy.”

“I’m twenty-one, Duncan. I think the growing ship has sailed.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it.” He turned back to his pastries, muttering something in Gaelic that I was pretty sure translated to “stubborn American children don’t appreciate proper nutrition.”

I bit into the scone and nearly groaned. Warm, buttery, with just the right balance of sweetness and tang from the berries. Duncan might be a tyrant, but he was a tyrant who could bake.

“Where’s Mom?” I asked between bites.

“East wing,” supplied Emma, one of the maids, as she swept past with a stack of linens. “Preparing for His Majesty’s arrival.”

“You’d think the actual king was coming,” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Worse,” Duncan replied, not looking up from his piping. “A movie star. At least kings have proper manners about food. Last time Paul was home, he ate an entire tray of canapés meant for twenty people. Twenty!”

I hid my smile. Duncan’s ongoing feud with Paul’s appetite was legendary in the household.

“I’ll head up there after I finish this,” I said, gesturing to the scone. “Any other household disasters I should know about?”

“The usual pre-arrival chaos,” Emma said with a shrug. “Madi’s redecorated the east wing three times this week. David’s tech equipment keeps tripping the breakers in the west wing. And someone ordered the wrong flowers for the foyer. Madi nearly had a conniption.”

“So just another day at Casa Carmichael.”

I finished my scone, thanked Duncan profusely, the surest way to ensure future baked goods, and made my way through the house toward the east wing.

The main floor was a hive of activity—staff polishing, arranging, adjusting.

The Carmichaels maintained a full-time household staff of twelve, supplemented by additional help for special events.

Today, it seemed like all of them were in overdrive.

I found Mom in the east wing’s main suite, clipboard in hand, directing two younger staff members.

“There you are,” she said when she spotted me. “What took you so long?”

“Good morning, Mother. I’m well, thank you for asking.” I leaned in to kiss her cheek, which earned me an eye roll but also a quick hug.

“Don’t get smart with me. We’re on a tight schedule.” She consulted her clipboard. “Madi wants you to check the guest suites in the north wing, something about the artwork being ‘uninspired.’ Then she needs you to help with the table settings for tonight.”

“What happened to Sheena’s usual staff?” I asked, already dreading an afternoon of rearranging paintings and obsessing over fork placement.

“Half of them are still in Paris with her. The others are preparing for the charity gala next weekend.” She gave me a look that brooked no argument. “This is all hands on deck, Eli. The prodigal son returns.”

“Pretty sure that parable doesn’t apply when the son has an entire wing named after him and never bothers to come home,” I muttered.

“I heard that. North wing, artwork, then find me in the dining room.” She checked her watch. “Jace called from the airport. His flight landed early, so he’ll be on the road soon. Could be here by two instead of four.”

My heart did a stupid little skip. “Two? That’s… soon.”

“Exactly. So move it.” She shooed me toward the door, already turning her attention back to the other staff.

The morning passed in a blur of mundane tasks elevated to DEFCON 1 status by the impending arrival of Jace Carmichael.

I rearranged artwork in three guest suites (apparently landscapes were “too predictable” but abstracts were “too challenging for overnight guests”), helped set the formal dining table for dinner, a process that involved actual rulers to measure the distance between place settings, and was drafted to help Duncan plate a “simple lunch” that involved more garnishes than I’d seen in my entire life.

By noon, my nerves had settled somewhat. The household was running with well-oiled precision, and I’d managed to stay busy enough to avoid thinking about the imminent arrival of the man whose face decorated half my bedroom wall.

I was heading to the kitchen for a quick break when Madi Carmichael intercepted me in the hallway.

Unlike my mother’s controlled chaos, Madi looked perfectly composed in a cream silk blouse and tailored pants, her auburn hair swept into an elegant updo.

Only the slight tightness around her eyes betrayed any stress.

“Eli, darling,” she said, touching my arm lightly. “Just the person I was looking for.”

“Mrs. Carmichael—I mean, Madi.” Even after years, I still slipped into formality with her.

“I need your help with something rather urgent.” Her perfectly manicured hand fluttered to her pearl necklace. “Jace just called from the road. He’s making excellent time and could be here in less than an hour.”

My heart skipped several beats. “Already?”

She glanced around before continuing in a lower voice. “I’ve just seen the east wing master suite, and it’s simply not up to standard.”

“You want me to redo the suite?” My voice came out embarrassingly high-pitched.

“Would you? The current arrangement is all wrong—the flowers clash with the new bedding, the bathroom needs a proper cleaning with the special marble solution, and everything needs to be perfect.” She squeezed my arm gratefully. “I’d consider it a personal favor.”

How exactly does one say no to the woman whose family pays for your education, your parents’ salaries, and the roof over your head? Spoiler alert: you don’t.

“I’ll take care of it right away,” I promised, trying to ignore the panic bubbling in my chest. Jace could be here in an hour. I’d be in his bedroom. His personal space. Where he would sleep and shower and—nope, not going there.

“Wonderful! Everything you need should be in the supply closet. Use the blue bottle for the marble, not the green one. It makes all the difference.”

With that cryptic instruction, she swept away, leaving me standing in the hallway having a minor existential crisis. Like, sure, no pressure—just go make Hollywood’s golden boy’s bathroom sparkle while trying not to hyperventilate. Totally normal Tuesday.

I pushed open the suite door with all the confidence of someone walking into a final exam they forgot to study for. And promptly stopped dead in my tracks.

The suite was exactly what you’d expect from Hollywood royalty, and nothing like I’d imagined in my embarrassingly frequent daydreams (which, for the record, involved a lot less clothing and a lot more…

okay, let’s not go there). Floor-to-ceiling windows dominated two walls, offering a view of the valley that made my artist’s heart do something between a somersault and a swan dive.

The morning light painted everything in cinematic gold, like God himself was operating the lighting rig for Jace Carmichael’s life.

But it was the personal touches that made my mouth go Sahara desert dry. This wasn’t just any VIP suite—this was Jace Carmichael’s actual space, his natural habitat, his personal kingdom of ridiculous attractiveness.

Awards were scattered around with casual indifference, like someone had absentmindedly set down their Oscars between coffee cups.

“Oh, this old thing? Just a symbol of being the pinnacle of my profession. I use it as a paperweight.” Movie posters lined the walls in elegant frames (Madi’s touch, no doubt), including several I had cheaper, slightly wrinkled versions of in my own room.

The difference being his were signed with personal messages from directors and co-stars, while mine were carefully extracted from magazines and lovingly smoothed out with books stacked on top.

Photos showed Jace with various celebrities, his easy smile making even the most famous faces seem ordinary in comparison. The man had the superhuman ability to be the most gorgeous person in any frame, a talent that should be studied by scientists or possibly weaponized.

The space somehow managed to be both impossibly sophisticated and distinctly him—masculine luxury with just enough Hollywood glamour to remind you that yes, you were indeed in the private domain of one of the world’s biggest stars.

It was like GQ magazine and Architectural Digest had a baby, and that baby grew up to have exceptional taste and an obscene bank account.

“Stop fanboying and start cleaning,” I muttered to myself, gathering supplies with the determination of someone who absolutely, definitely wasn’t having a minor cardiac event.

“The faster you finish, the less chance of doing something monumentally embarrassing.” Which, given my track record, was about as likely as me sprouting wings and flying to the moon.

Madi was right about one thing though. Whoever had prepared the room had done a mediocre job.

The flowers were wilting slightly, the bedding wasn’t perfectly smooth, and there was a thin layer of dust on the bedside tables.

I tried very hard not to think about what happened on that bed as I smoothed the Egyptian cotton sheets with hands that were only slightly shaking. Nope, not thinking about it at all.