Page 22 of Captivated By Alphas 1, Fated (The Blood Moon Chronicle #4)

Was it? The logical part of my brain screamed yes, absolutely, erase that mortifying memory immediately. But some traitorous part of me, probably the same part that kept those movie posters on my wall, didn’t want to forget the way Jace had looked at me, like I was something worth seeing.

“I just… I don’t know how to act around you now,” I admitted, surprising myself with the honesty. “You’re Jace Carmichael, and I’m just… me. The housekeeper’s son who you caught half-naked in your bathroom.”

Something shifted in his expression, a softening around the eyes that made him look less like a movie star and more like a real person. “You’re not ‘just’ anything, Eli.”

My heart did a stupid little flip. “That’s very nice of you to say, but—”

“It’s not nice. It’s true.” He took a step closer, and I found myself backing up until I felt the wall behind me. Jace placed one hand against the wall beside my head, effectively caging me in. “I don’t want to pretend yesterday didn’t happen.”

Oh God. This was not happening. Jace Carmichael was not pinning me against a wall in the middle of his family’s mansion, looking at me like I was something he wanted to devour. Except he absolutely was, and my body was having very specific reactions to his proximity.

The weirdest part? I couldn’t explain why my knees suddenly felt like they were made of jelly or why I had this bizarre urge to tilt my head and expose my neck to him.

What was that about? I wasn’t usually the swooning type, but something about Jace’s presence made me want to…

surrender? Submit? The thought should have horrified me, but instead, it sent a shiver of anticipation down my spine.

“We barely know each other,” I pointed out, my voice embarrassingly breathy. My internal monologue was far less composed: Get it together, Eli! He’s just a man. An unfairly gorgeous, impossibly magnetic man who smells like everything you’ve ever wanted, but still just a man.

“Then let’s change that,” he murmured, leaning closer. I could smell his cologne, something expensive and woodsy that made my head spin. But underneath was something else—something wild and primal that called to some part of me I didn’t understand. “Have dinner with me.”

His scent wrapped around me like the world’s most expensive, dangerous blanket, that same sandalwood and cedar combo that had been gate-crashing my dreams since our bathroom encounter.

This close, with barely any space between us, it was like being drunk without the fun part of drinking first. I’d spent all morning giving myself stern lectures about forgetting yesterday’s naked fiasco, but with him pinning me against the wall, those lectures evaporated faster than water in the Sahara.

Something weird was happening inside me, like my body had suddenly developed telepathy but forgot to include my brain in the conversation.

It wasn’t just attraction (though holy hell, there was plenty of that).

This was different, deeper, more instinctual, like my cells recognized him on some bizarre molecular level.

Like he was water and I’d been wandering the desert my whole life without realizing I was thirsty.

This wasn’t normal. People don’t react this way to other people, no matter how unfairly gorgeous they are.

They don’t feel this pull, this need to get closer that borders on physical pain.

They don’t have to fight the urge to literally offer their throat like some Animal Planet submission display.

And they definitely don’t enjoy it as much as I apparently did. What was wrong with me?

His hand came up to brush a strand of hair from my forehead, and I swore I almost whimpered.

His fingers trailed down to cup my jaw, and my body reacted like he’d flipped some hidden switch.

My pulse skyrocketed, my skin felt too tight, and I had this crazy urge to press against him like a cat seeking affection.

“I’m working dinner service,” I replied automatically, my brain struggling to process what was happening.

My hands had somehow landed on his chest without my permission, and holy crap, the man was solid muscle beneath that designer shirt.

I could feel his heartbeat under my palm, steady and strong where mine was doing its best hummingbird impression.

“After, then.”

His thumb traced along my jawline, and I found myself leaning into the touch like I was starved for it.

What the hell? I wasn’t usually this touch-hungry.

But something about Jace’s hands on me felt…

right. Like they belonged there. Like I belonged under his hands.

The thought should have triggered all my independent, snarky defense mechanisms, but instead, I just wanted more.

“Are you… asking me on a date?” I couldn’t keep the disbelief from my voice.

Jace’s lips curved into that devastating half smile. “Yes, Eli. I’m asking you on a date.”

His eyes changed then—just for a second—blue giving way to a flash of gold that I might have imagined.

But that brief color shift sent a jolt through my system, making me instinctively want to bare my throat to him.

I’d been around shifters my entire life and never had this reaction before.

Paul shifted all the time, and I never felt this weird primal urge to submit to him.

His fingers slid to the back of my neck, tangling in my hair as he tilted my face up toward his.

My entire body went pliant under his touch, like my bones had suddenly decided they were optional equipment.

I should have been horrified at my reaction—I prided myself on my independence, my sass, my ability to stand my ground.

But all my defenses were crumbling under Jace’s touch like they were made of wet tissue paper.

“I… um…” Words, Eli. Use your words. Any words. Preferably in an order that makes sense. “That’s… I mean…”

Jace leaned in slowly, giving me time to pull away.

I didn’t. Couldn’t. My brain had short-circuited completely, all rational thought evaporating as his lips hovered a breath away from mine.

His free hand circled my wrist, his thumb pressing against my pulse point.

The touch was both possessive and gentle, his fingers wrapping completely around my wrist in a way that should have made me feel trapped but instead made me feel…

claimed? Protected? Both concepts should have sent me running for the hills, but my body had clearly staged a mutiny against all logical thought.

“Eli,” he whispered, my name sounding like a prayer on his lips. “I’ve been thinking about this since yesterday.”

My lips parted to respond, though what I planned to say, I had no idea. Probably something embarrassing like “Yes, please” or “What took you so long?” or “I’m pretty sure I’ve been waiting for this since I first saw your movie poster when I was sixteen, which is pathetic but here we are.”

Before his lips could touch mine, a voice called from below.

“Eli! There you are!” My mother stood at the bottom of the stairs, hands on hips. “Madi’s been looking everywhere for you!”

Jace froze, a low sound rumbling in his chest that vibrated through me where my hands still rested against him.

It wasn’t quite a growl, but it was close enough to make my stomach do a complicated flip.

Then he stepped back smoothly, though his hand lingered on my wrist for a moment longer than necessary, his thumb stroking once more across my pulse before releasing me.

His expression shifted to casual politeness so quickly I almost wondered if I’d imagined the intensity of the moment before. But the heat in my cheeks and the lingering sensation of his fingers against my skin told me it had been very, very real.

“Sorry, Tricia,” he called down, his voice perfectly controlled despite what had nearly happened. “I was just asking Eli about his art. My fault entirely.”

My mother’s expression softened slightly. She’d always had a soft spot for the Carmichaels, especially the charming ones. “Well, Madi needs him in the kitchen now.”

“Of course.” Jace nodded, then turned back to me. Before I could react, he leaned in again, his lips brushing against my ear as he whispered, “Think about dinner, Eli. I’ll find you later.”

His breath against my ear sent shivers down my spine, and I had to suppress a full-body shudder.

As he pulled back, his hand trailed along my shoulder and down my arm in a seemingly casual touch that felt anything but casual.

His fingers lingered at my wrist again, circling it briefly before he finally stepped back.

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving me breathless and confused.

I remained frozen against the wall for several seconds, trying to recalibrate my brain into something resembling normal function.

What the hell had just happened? And why was I suddenly mourning the loss of his touch like he’d taken something vital with him?

I made my way downstairs on slightly wobbly legs, my mother giving me a curious look.

“Everything alright?” she asked as we headed toward the kitchen. “Your face is flushed.”

“Fine,” I squeaked, then cleared my throat. “Totally fine. Just… art stuff. With Jace. Who apparently cares about art now. For reasons.”

Mom raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further, for which I was eternally grateful. The kitchen was bustling with activity when we arrived, Madi directing staff with her usual graceful efficiency.

The next few hours passed in a blur of lunch service—platters carried, water glasses refilled, and me doing my best to avoid making eye contact with Jace.

If he noticed my attempts to stay as far from his end of the table as possible, he didn’t comment.

Though I could have sworn I felt his eyes following me every time I entered the room, like a physical touch trailing across my skin.