Page 27 of Captivated By Alphas 1, Fated (The Blood Moon Chronicle #4)
CARMICHAEL COUSINS
Adrian Carmichael tapped his fingers against the steering wheel of his vintage Aston Martin, creating a rhythm that matched the jazz flowing through the custom sound system.
Unlike his action-star cousin who treated driving as just getting from A to B, Adrian actually loved the journey—the way light played across the Washington landscapes, the snapshot glimpses of small towns, the stories written on the faces at roadside diners.
His panther lounged beneath his skin, content for now to enjoy the sensory feast alongside him. The beast had always appreciated beauty in all forms—a quality that made Adrian both a killer filmmaker and a sucker for anything that stirred the senses.
He’d flown into Seattle on his private jet, landing at a god-awful four a.m. and insisting his favorite car be waiting at the private airfield. Sleep could wait; witnessing Jace Carmichael’s apparent romantic crisis could not.
Three critically acclaimed indie films in two years had put Carmichael Independent Pictures on the map as the festival circuit’s golden child, but lately, even professional success felt hollow.
Something essential was missing—an inspiration he couldn’t name but felt the absence of like a phantom limb.
His panther had been restless for months, pacing beneath his skin during production meetings, prowling through his dreams at night, turning its nose up at the critical acclaim that usually soothed its artistic ego.
Running from your kingdom already? Cole’s voice filtered through their pack bond, crisp and precise as a Swiss watch. Your assistant called mine in a panic. Apparently, you left without your itinerary, your protein supplements, and your signed contracts for the Sundance panel.
Adrian smiled, adjusting his designer sunglasses as the highway curved inland through a particularly photogenic stretch of coastline.
The early morning light was perfect for driving—soft enough to be gentle on his eyes after the overnight flight, but bright enough to showcase the landscape’s beauty.
Itineraries are for people who know where they’re going.
I prefer to discover my destination along the way.
It’s called artistic spontaneity—you might want to try it sometime between spreadsheets.
Poetic, Cole replied, his tone as dry as expensive champagne. Also catastrophically inefficient. I’m flying in tomorrow at a reasonable hour. Try not to get lost in your artistic vision before the family dinner.
Your faith in me is touching, Adrian shot back, his voice rich with theatrical indignation despite his fatigue. Any word from our newly lovestruck cousin? His panther was practically composing sonnets last night.
Radio silence since yesterday. Whatever—or whoever—caught his attention must be quite extraordinary. Jace doesn’t typically lose his Hollywood-perfected composure over just anyone.
Adrian’s curiosity about Jace’s mysterious interest had been the primary motivation for taking the overnight flight and driving since dawn.
The opportunity to witness—and mercilessly tease—his always-in-control cousin experiencing genuine mate attraction was too delicious to miss.
After years of Jace’s smug lectures about Adrian’s “artistic temperament” and “excessive emotional displays,” the tables had finally turned.
Front-row seats to Jace’s first genuine emotional response in a decade? Adrian mused to himself, stifling a yawn. Worth sacrificing a night’s sleep.
That, and the growing restlessness of his panther.
Something coming, his beast murmured, an unusual sense of anticipation coloring its usual languid presence. Something important.
See you tomorrow, Adrian concluded, letting the connection fade as he turned off the highway onto the scenic route that would eventually lead to the Carmichael estate. Try not to calculate the exact cost-benefit analysis of every interaction you have between now and then.
The detour wasn’t accidental—the direct route would have been faster, more efficient, more logical.
All the things Cole valued and Adrian deliberately subverted whenever possible.
Life’s most profound discoveries happened in the margins, the unexpected turns, the unplanned moments between carefully scheduled events.
It was what made him a brilliant character actor while Jace excelled at straightforward action roles and Cole dominated the tech world.
Three hours later, with the morning sun climbing higher in the sky, Adrian was questioning his philosophical approach to navigation with increasing intensity.
The scenic route had indeed been beautiful—rolling hills giving way to vineyards, then dense forests as he approached Carmichael territory.
He’d even stopped to capture the perfect shot of morning mist rising from a valley, inspiration for the pivotal third-act sequence in his upcoming psychological thriller.
What he hadn’t anticipated was his vintage car’s insatiable thirst for premium fuel or the surprising scarcity of gas stations in this particular stretch of Washington countryside.
“Perfect,” he muttered as the engine sputtered and died, momentum carrying the car to the shoulder of the narrow country road. The fuel gauge, which he now realized had been giving optimistic readings for the past twenty miles, finally surrendered to reality and pointed accusingly at empty.
His panther stirred, suddenly alert in a way that caught Adrian’s attention. The beast wasn’t irritated by their predicament—it was… expectant? Almost eager? The sensation was so unusual that Adrian paused, trying to interpret his other half’s sudden interest.
What’s got you so worked up? he asked silently, but his panther merely stretched beneath his skin, refusing to explain its sudden alertness.
Adrian checked his phone: no service. Of course. The universe had a flair for dramatic irony that even he, as a filmmaker, could appreciate.
He stepped out of the car, stretching his long frame after hours of driving.
The Carmichael estate couldn’t be more than fifteen miles away, but walking would hardly be dignified—especially in his designer loafers.
The irony wasn’t lost on him—an alpha predator, one of Hollywood’s most sought-after talents, stranded on a country road like a teenager in a bad coming-of-age film.
His panther, surprisingly, seemed amused rather than irritated by their predicament. The creature stretched lazily beneath his skin, almost… anticipatory? Adrian frowned, scanning the empty road in both directions. Nothing but trees and silence.
The sun beat down with unusual intensity for Washington, the heat wave turning the normally temperate climate into something approaching California temperatures. Adrian shrugged out of his lightweight jacket, draping it over the car door as he considered his options.
His panther suddenly went completely still—the predatory stillness that preceded a hunt. Every sense sharpened, his vision focusing with preternatural clarity on something through the trees. A glint of metal reflecting sunlight caught his attention.
There, his panther urged, pushing him toward the forest edge. Go there.
“What is it?” he murmured to the creature. His panther rarely showed such focused interest without cause.
He scanned around and spotted something through the trees in the distance—a glint of metal reflecting sunlight. He was on Carmichael land; he recognized the familiar markers of their territory. This meant whatever—whoever—was ahead belonged here in some capacity.
Adrian left the road, following a barely visible path through the trees.
The scent of water reached him—fresh, clean, with mineral undertones.
A memory stirred; there was a small lake here, a natural spring-fed pool he and his cousins had discovered as teenagers.
It wasn’t as large as the main lake near the estate, but it was secluded, peaceful, perfect for solitary swimming.
His panther pushed him forward with unusual urgency, the beast practically vibrating beneath his skin with anticipation. Adrian followed its instinct, trusting the creature’s senses even as he wondered at its sudden intensity.
The trees opened to reveal a modest clearing. A small sedan was parked near the edge of the woods, and beyond it, the lake sparkled in the midday sun. Adrian approached the car, hoping to find its owner and perhaps secure a ride back to civilization.
The vehicle was empty, though a phone and keys rested on the dashboard, suggesting the owner was nearby. Adrian turned toward the lake, his enhanced vision scanning the shore for any sign of movement.
What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks.
There, in the crystal-clear water, was a young man swimming with graceful, unhurried strokes. Platinum-blond hair gleamed like liquid silver in the sunlight. As Adrian watched, transfixed, the swimmer turned onto his back, floating effortlessly.
He was completely, gloriously naked.
Adrian’s filmmaker brain instantly framed the scene—the interplay of light and water, the perfect composition of pale skin against blue depths, the ethereal quality of the moment that no camera could fully capture.
This wasn’t just a beautiful man—this was living art, a visual poem, a moment of pure aesthetic perfection that made Adrian’s artistic soul ache with appreciation.
The wind shifted, carrying the swimmer’s scent directly to Adrian.
His panther didn’t just stir—it erupted within him, clawing against his rib cage with such violence that he physically staggered backward.
A single word obliterated all artistic appreciation, all rational thought, all civilized pretense.
MATE.