Page 35 of Captivated By Alphas 1, Fated (The Blood Moon Chronicle #4)

Iadjusted the napkin on my arm for the fifth time, trying to ignore the butterflies in my stomach—except “butterflies” was far too delicate a term for what felt more like rabid bats performing an extreme sports competition in my digestive tract.

The Harringtons’ arrival had sent the mansion into its usual controlled chaos—Madi orchestrating the staff with the precision of a symphony conductor, Duncan muttering Scottish curses in the kitchen that would make sailors blush, and my mother giving me The Look that promised a full interrogation about my afternoon “adventure” later.

Princess had been banished to Sheena’s room for the duration of the formal dinner, though not before attempting to sneak into the dining room three separate times—her final attempt involving what I could only describe as a tiny dog commando crawl beneath the buffet table.

Titan, meanwhile, had been relegated to his plush bed near the fireplace in the great room, where he could maintain his watchful presence without interfering with the service.

The Newfoundland had given me a sympathetic look as I passed, as if sensing my anxiety about the evening ahead. Even the dog knew I was doomed.

But it wasn’t the Harringtons making my heart pound against my ribs like it was trying to escape and run screaming into the night. It was the knowledge that on the other side of those dining room doors waited not one, but two Carmichael alphas who had seen me naked in the past forty-eight hours.

My life had officially spiraled into some alternate reality where impossibly gorgeous celebrities developed sudden, inexplicable interests in graphic design students who tripped over their own feet.

Maybe I’d accidentally slipped into the twilight zone.

Or maybe this was an elaborate prank show, and any minute now cameras would pop out from behind the potted plants.

“Surprise! You’ve been cast in Mortify the Staff Kid: Celebrity Edition! ”

“Ready, Eli?” Mom appeared beside me, looking elegant and composed in her service uniform. How she managed that level of dignity while carrying a tray of appetizers remained one of life’s great mysteries. I, meanwhile, looked like I’d been electrocuted and then stress-napped in my clothes.

“As I’ll ever be,” I muttered, adjusting the white button-down shirt that suddenly felt too tight around my collar. “Remind me again why I agreed to help with service tonight instead of faking my own death and moving to Antarctica?”

“Because you love your mother and want to save for that new graphics tablet,” she replied smoothly, giving me a look that suggested she hadn’t missed my nervous fidgeting. “And because penguins would find your dramatic tendencies exhausting.”

Right. Adulting. Responsibilities. Not running away screaming because Adrian Carmichael might recognize me as the naked lake boy from this afternoon, and Jace Carmichael might remind everyone that he saw me half-naked in his bathroom yesterday.

My life had become a nudity-themed disaster movie in record time.

“Here.” Mom handed me a tray of Duncan’s meticulously arranged appetizers—tiny works of art that probably took longer to plate than I’d spent on my last design project. “Just breathe, smile politely, and remember—”

“No sarcasm to the guests,” I finished with a sigh. “Even if they deserve it.”

Her lips twitched. “Especially if they deserve it. And stop looking like you’re walking to your execution. It’s dinner service, not the guillotine.”

Debatable.

The dining room doors loomed before me like the entrance to a gladiatorial arena where the lions wore designer suits and the spectators carried platinum credit cards. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and pushed through.

The Carmichael formal dining room always impressed me, no matter how many times I’d served in it.

Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over the massive oak table, highlighting the gleaming silver and fresh flowers.

George sat at the head, with Franklin Harrington to his right and Madi to his left.

The rest of the family and guests were arranged according to some social hierarchy I’d never fully grasped despite Madi’s patient explanations.

Something about bloodlines and business connections and who could eat whom if they suddenly transformed into panthers at the dinner table.

My eyes immediately found Jace, because apparently my eyeballs had their own agenda tonight.

He looked unfairly gorgeous in a tailored navy shirt that made his eyes more intense than should be legal.

His hair was styled in that perfect “I spent two hours and three products to look like I just rolled out of bed” way that only celebrities can achieve.

He was mid-conversation with Victoria Harrington, who was practically draped across her chair toward him, her designer dress strategically revealing just enough to be “tasteful” while still making it clear she’d happily be his dessert course.

The moment his gaze shifted to me, my knees nearly buckled.

I actually had to lock my legs to stay upright, like some Victorian maiden about to swoon at the sight of a gentleman’s chest. My throat suddenly felt exposed, like it was offering itself up for…

something. Great, now my body parts were staging a rebellion.

Next, my hands would probably start applauding him without my permission.

Get it together, Eli. You’re carrying expensive appetizers, not auditioning for America’s Next Top Fainting Spell.

Then my gaze shifted to Adrian across the table, because apparently I was determined to complete my tour of Mortification City tonight.

His forest-green shirt brought out the gold flecks in his eyes as he watched me with the focused interest of a cat who’s spotted something small and nervous to play with.

When he smiled, my mind went a little fuzzy around the edges, like I’d had half a glass of wine on an empty stomach while spinning in office chairs.

Focus, Eli. Appetizers. Job. Dignity. Remember those? They’re concepts you used to be familiar with before your body decided to stage a coup against your brain.

I went into autopilot mode, circling the table with my tray and plastering on my best “yes, I’m definitely a professional who isn’t having an internal breakdown” smile.

Five years of Carmichael dinner service had trained me well, even if my internal monologue was currently screaming at a pitch only dogs and possibly some bats could hear.

“These look delicious,” Victoria Harrington commented as I presented the tray to her. “Did you make them yourself?”

“No, ma’am,” I replied, keeping my expression neutral despite the urge to roll my eyes so hard they might get stuck in the back of my head.

Did she think I’d been cooking in full service attire?

Or that I had suddenly acquired culinary skills to rival a Scottish chef with thirty years of experience?

Maybe she thought I’d been hiding in the pantry, crafting canapés between dusting the priceless antiques.

“Duncan is our chef. I just help with service.”

“Well, you do it beautifully,” she said with the condescending smile of someone who’d never carried anything heavier than her own opinions. “Such elegant presentation.”

Thank you for noticing my incredible skill at holding a tray without dropping it on your designer dress. It took years of practice and a rigorous training program called Having Bills to Pay: The Musical.

“You’re too kind,” I murmured instead, moving on before my face betrayed my thoughts. My poker face had limits, and Victoria Harrington was pushing them like a toddler testing bedtime rules.

I approached Jace next, carefully avoiding direct eye contact.

Maybe if I didn’t look at him, I could pretend yesterday’s bathroom incident never happened.

Or this morning’s hallway incident where he’d practically pinned me to the wall and almost kissed me.

Maybe if I stared hard enough at the appetizers, I could forget how his eyes had darkened when he saw me, how his voice had dropped to that dangerous register that made my insides turn to liquid, or how close his lips had been to mine before my mom’s impeccably timed interruption.

Seriously, between the bathroom nakedness and the hallway almost-kiss, I was collecting more mortifying Jace Carmichael encounters than some fans collected autographs.

“Appetizer, Mr. Carmichael?” I asked, aiming for professional detachment and landing somewhere closer to “squeaky teenager with a celebrity crush and severe dehydration.”

His fingers brushed mine deliberately as he selected from the tray, and the contact sent electricity up my arm like I’d stuck my finger in a socket during a lightning storm.

My spine straightened automatically, and my breath caught in my throat.

What the actual hell? Was he secretly carrying a taser?

Had I developed some rare condition where attractive people caused temporary paralysis?

“Thank you, Eli,” he replied, his voice dropping to a register meant only for me, low and commanding. “You look good in white.”

I nearly choked, heat flooding my face as my knees threatened to give out entirely.

It took every ounce of willpower not to actually whimper—which would have been mortifying beyond words.

Move over teen movies, I’d just discovered a new level of embarrassing crush symptoms that would make even rom-coms blush.

“Careful, sir,” I managed, my voice mercifully steady despite the internal chaos. “The sauce stains.”