Page 24 of Captivated By Alphas 1, Fated (The Blood Moon Chronicle #4)

“Sorry to intrude on your private moment,” Adrian called back, his voice carrying across the water with that precise diction that screamed ‘I went to fancy acting school.’ “My car broke down about a mile back. I was hoping to find some help.”

Right. Because of course Adrian Carmichael’s car would break down exactly when I decided to go skinny-dipping. The statistical probability of this happening had to be somewhere between winning the lottery while being struck by lightning and pigs spontaneously developing wings.

My brain refused to process what my eyes were seeing. Adrian Carmichael. Here. While I was naked. In a lake. In the middle of nowhere. I was either having a very vivid hallucination or the universe had decided I hadn’t been humiliated enough in the past twenty-four hours.

All I could focus on was how unfairly gorgeous he looked standing there.

The sunlight hit his hair in a way that made it look like one of those fancy social media filters, the ones that make even dumpsters look artsy.

His shirt stretched across shoulders that definitely hadn’t been digitally enhanced for magazine covers.

And his eyes—were they always that green or was this some special effect reserved for mortifying moments in my life?

“You’re Adrian Carmichael,” I blurted, because apparently my brain-to-mouth filter had taken the day off. “Of course you are. Because apparently the universe thinks I haven’t been embarrassed enough today. Or this week. Or possibly this lifetime.”

His lips curved upward, and sweet baby pandas, those lips should come with a warning label. Or at least a surgeon general’s notice: “CAUTION: May cause temporary brain failure and inappropriate thoughts in graphic design students.”

“You have me at a disadvantage,” he said, his voice like expensive whiskey poured over even more expensive ice. “You know who I am, but I don’t know your name.”

Words, Eli. Use them. Preferably in a coherent order that doesn’t reveal you’ve watched every single one of his films multiple times.

“Eli Harper,” I replied, sinking deeper until the water lapped at my chin.

“I work for your family. And I’d really, really appreciate if you could turn around while I get out.

Like, actually turn around, not the fake Hollywood version where you pretend to look away but actually keep watching for your next ‘artistic nude study’ or whatever. ”

Adrian placed a hand over his heart, his expression one of wounded dignity that wouldn’t have fooled a particularly gullible toddler. The movement pulled his shirt taut across his chest, revealing muscles that made me question whether gravity applied to him the same way it did to normal humans.

I nearly went under trying to look away. Great job, Eli. You’ve officially reached the “drowning because you’re distracted by abs” level of pathetic.

“You wound me with your assumptions,” he said, looking about as wounded as a lion eyeing a particularly juicy gazelle. “I’m a consummate professional.”

“You’re a consummate something,” I muttered, though the water muffled my words. Then louder, “My clothes are on that rock over there. If you could just hand them to me and actually turn around…”

“Happy to help.”

He moved toward my clothes with the kind of grace that made me wonder if he was part liquid.

Paul shifted into a panther all the time, but I’d never seen a human move quite like Adrian did—each step so perfectly balanced it was like watching a National Geographic special on apex predators.

It was both mesmerizing and slightly terrifying, like watching a shark glide through water while you’re treading in the same pool.

He gathered my clothes, and I swore to all things holy, he actually sniffed them. My t-shirt hovered near his face for a solid two seconds longer than any normal human would hold someone else’s clothing to their nose.

What was with these Carmichaels and their weird behavior? Was there some secret “How to Be Simultaneously Creepy and Hot” masterclass they all took? A Stalking for Dummies book they passed around at family reunions?

“Here you go,” he said, extending my clothes toward me with a smile that suggested he knew exactly what he was doing and was enjoying every second of my discomfort.

I reached out, stretching as far as humanly possible while keeping everything below my collarbones submerged. My fingers brushed the fabric—

Splash!

My clothes tumbled from his grasp, landing half in the water. Adrian’s expression of surprise was about as convincing as a three-year-old with chocolate all over their face denying they ate the cookies.

“Oops,” he said, his smile widening to reveal perfect teeth. “How clumsy of me.”

“That wasn’t an accident.” I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to ignore how the sunlight outlined his profile like he had his own personal lighting crew following him around. “You did that on purpose.”

“Wasn’t it?” His voice dropped an octave, sending a shiver down my spine despite the warm water. Something flashed in his eyes—a hint of gold that disappeared so quickly I might have imagined it. “My mistake.”

My heart did a weird stutter-step thing that probably wasn’t healthy.

I needed to say something cutting, something that would show I wasn’t affected by his ridiculous movie-star charm or his impossibly green eyes or the way his voice seemed to bypass my ears and go straight to my central nervous system.

“Right. Just like your last film’s ‘accidental’ artistic nudity that somehow earned you three festival awards.” I aimed for biting sarcasm, but it came out more breathless than I intended. “Very convincing, Carmichael.”

He laughed—a rich, genuine sound that seemed to vibrate through the water between us.

“You’ve seen my films?” His smile turned pleased, almost boyish, and somehow that was even more dangerous than his practiced charm.

“I have internet access and working eyeballs.” The words escaped before my brain could catch up.

Smooth, Eli. Really smooth. Just casually admit you’ve seen his work.

Next, why don’t you tell him about the poster collection in your bedroom?

“Now I have nothing to wear, thanks to your ‘artistic vision.’”

“I could offer you my shirt.” His fingers moved to his top button, unfastening it with deliberate slowness. The second button followed the first. Then the third.

Oh, sweet merciful universe. My mouth went desert dry as tanned skin appeared inch by inch.

The lake, the trees, my predicament—everything faded into background noise as Adrian Carmichael performed what had to be the world’s most effective striptease.

Each revealed inch of skin made my brain cells commit mass suicide, one by one.

The afternoon sun played across his chest like it was specifically hired to highlight every perfect muscle.

"That's… not necessary," I protested, though my eyes were apparently no longer under my conscious control and continued tracking the movement of his fingers with embarrassing interest.

His knowing smirk snapped me back to reality.

He’d caught me staring. Heat crawled up my neck like a swarm of fire ants.

I was officially the worst negotiator in history.

I’d started this interaction demanding privacy and somehow ended up watching a strip show that would make Magic Mike look like amateur hour.

“I insist,” he said, holding out his shirt and letting it dangle from his fingertips like the world’s most expensive bait. “Consider it compensation for my clumsiness.”

“Fine.” My options were limited to his shirt or streaking through the forest like a feral woodland creature. “But turn around this time.”

I scrambled for something to say that would hide how flustered I was. “Like, face the trees, count to twenty, and contemplate the ethical implications of ogling the staff.”

His lips twitched. “So specific. Has someone been watching you swim before?”

“Just turn around!” The heat in my face could have boiled the entire lake. At this rate, I’d single-handedly solve global warming through the sheer power of my mortification.

“As you wish.”

Oh God. He did not just quote The Princess Bride at me. That was playing dirty. Now I was picturing him as Westley, which was both ridiculous and distressingly appealing. Next thing you know, I’d be imagining myself as Buttercup, and that was a rabbit hole of embarrassment I refused to tumble down.

He made a show of turning his back, muscles shifting beneath tanned skin like some kind of luxury sports car commercial—all sleek lines and powerful movement designed to make you want things you couldn’t afford.

I waited a heartbeat, making sure he was actually facing away, then waded to shore as quietly as possible.

The air felt cool against my wet skin, raising goosebumps along my arms and legs.

I scrambled into Adrian’s shirt, trying not to think about how it still held his body heat or how it smelled like cardamom and something uniquely him that made my head spin slightly.

The fabric—softer than anything I’d ever owned—hung to mid-thigh on my smaller frame.

I felt like I was wearing a billboard that screamed “THIS MAN SAW ME NAKED AND NOW I’M WEARING HIS CLOTHES. ”

“Okay, you can turn around now,” I called, tugging the hem lower in a futile attempt to cover more of my legs. Trying to look dignified while standing pantsless in the middle of the forest was definitely not covered in any of my life skills courses.

Adrian turned, and holy electrical storm.

The way he looked at me made me feel like I was still completely naked.

His eyes—darker now, green giving way to amber around the edges—traveled from my face to my bare legs and back again with an intensity that should have been illegal.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. His pupils expanded, swallowing the color like a black hole devouring stars.