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

Ispun around, yanking out my earbuds, the mop clattering to the floor with what sounded like a thunderclap in the sudden silence.

Time seemed to slow as my eyes registered what I was seeing.

Broad shoulders that could carry the weight of several movie franchises.

Sculpted chest that belonged in a museum.

Narrow waist that defied the laws of anatomy.

Muscular thighs that… oh sweet merciful heavens.

And between those thighs—oh God—the impressive evidence that the rumors about Jace Carmichael were not exaggerated.

He looked like he’d been carved from marble by a sculptor with a very generous imagination and possibly a religious experience.

His skin was golden tan all over—ALL over—and his dark hair was slightly damp, as if he’d just come from a workout designed specifically to make mere mortals like me question our life choices.

His blue eyes widened in surprise, then darkened as they swept over my half-naked form.

“I— You—” I stammered, backing up involuntarily.

My brain had officially left the building, leaving behind only enough neurons to appreciate the magnificent specimen before me and absolutely none to form coherent sentences.

Something about his presence seemed to command the very air around us, like gravity had suddenly doubled its pull.

My foot hit the puddle I’d been mopping, and suddenly the world tilted sideways as I slipped.

I braced for impact with the hard marble floor—an impact that never came. Instead, Jace moved with impossible speed, crossing the bathroom and catching me mid-fall. Strong arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me against him.

Against his very naked body.

If this were a movie, violins would swell dramatically.

Since it was my life, all I heard was the blood rushing in my ears and my dignity making a hasty exit.

But something else happened too—something I couldn’t explain.

The moment his skin touched mine, a wave of heat rushed through me, starting where his hands gripped my waist and spreading outward like wildfire.

My muscles turned to liquid, my spine softening as if my body instinctively knew it should yield to him.

My head tilted back slightly, exposing my throat without conscious thought, while something deep in my core tightened and ached.

“Careful,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a seductive rumble that vibrated from his chest straight into mine.

His eyes locked with mine, a dangerous sparkle dancing in those blue depths.

For a split second, I could have sworn they flashed gold—a brief, impossible change that sent an electric current down my spine.

My breath caught, heart hammering against my ribs as my body seemed to recognize something my mind couldn’t comprehend.

His scent hit me then—not the “I spent five hundred dollars on cologne” kind, but something deeper that wrapped around me like invisible bonds.

Sandalwood and cedar with hints of bergamot, commanding and powerful, make my knees weak and my skin hypersensitive.

Every nerve ending came alive, craving more contact, more of that intoxicating scent.

What the actual hell? I’d been around shifters my entire life; Paul literally turned into a panther during our video game nights, but I’d never had this “please, yes, take me now” reaction before.

It was like my body had developed a mind of its own, recognizing something primal in him that bypassed all rational thought.

A strange warmth spread from my core outward, my breathing becoming shallow as I found myself inexplicably drawn to him.

I wanted—needed—to be closer, though I couldn’t understand why.

My throat felt exposed, vulnerable in a way that should have terrified me but instead sent a thrill of anticipation down my spine.

What the hell? I’d never had that reaction to anyone before.

“Though I have to say, falling for me this quickly is a bit forward, even by Hollywood standards.”

I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Could only register the feeling of his skin against mine, the strength of his arms holding me, the scent of his cologne filling my lungs. This close, I could see the flecks in his blue eyes, count individual eyelashes, feel the heat radiating from his body.

And I could definitely feel something else pressing insistently against my stomach. Something that made me simultaneously want to flee the country and ask for an encore presentation.

“You’re early,” I finally managed, my voice embarrassingly breathless. Because apparently, when confronted with a naked Adonis, my brain decided the most pressing issue was his punctuality.

His lips curved into that devastating half smile I’d seen melt hearts across a dozen silver screens.

“Clearly my timing is impeccable,” he said, making absolutely no move to cover himself as his eyes deliberately traced every inch of my exposed skin.

“Should I come back later, or would you prefer to continue this delightfully unexpected welcome home?”

I suddenly became acutely aware of our position—my bare chest pressed against his, his arms around my waist, our faces inches apart.

And him, completely naked, not making any move to cover himself or step away.

Like this was a totally normal way to meet someone.

Just two dudes, hanging out, one of them literally naked, the other half-naked and dripping wet. Nothing to see here, folks.

Heat flooded my face as I scrambled to extract myself from his grip, nearly slipping again in the process. His hands tightened reflexively, steadying me. Those hands that had probably held Oscars and supermodels were now holding… me. The universe has a sick sense of humor.

“I’m so sorry,” I babbled, mortification making my voice higher than usual. “There was a cleaning accident—the shower just exploded. I was trying to dry my shirt. I didn’t hear you come in because of the music—”

“Breathe,” he interrupted, his thumb brushing dangerously close to my hip bone as he steadied me. “It’s fine. Trust me, this is infinitely better than the red-carpet welcome I was expecting.”

It was decidedly not fine. I was half-naked, soaking wet, and pressed against a completely naked Jace Carmichael, who was not supposed to be here yet.

Who was holding me like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Who was making no effort whatsoever to cover himself.

This situation was so far from fine it had crossed into an entirely new dimension of mortification.

“I should go,” I said, trying to step back again. This time he let me, though his hands lingered at my waist a moment longer than strictly necessary. “I’m sorry about the mess. And for being in your bathroom. And for being… undressed.”

His eyes did a slow, deliberate sweep down my body, the heat in his gaze almost predatory. “I’m definitely not complaining about the view,” he said, voice dropping to a husky whisper. “In fact, I might need to thank my mother for her excellent staffing choices.”

Did he just—? Was that—? No, impossible. Jace Carmichael was not flirting with me. The lack of oxygen to my brain was clearly causing hallucinations. Next, I’d be seeing flying unicorns.

“I’ll just…” I gestured vaguely toward my shirt, still draped over the towel rack. It was still soaking wet. Perfect. Just perfect. The universe wasn’t content with just embarrassing me—it wanted to prolong the agony.

Jace followed my gaze, then looked back at me with that same amused expression.

“Wait here,” he said, turning to leave the bathroom with a deliberate slowness that felt like a private show just for me.

His perfectly sculpted back and shoulders flexed with each movement, drawing my eyes downward to what could only be described as artwork in human form.

The view of him walking away, all smooth skin, flexing muscles, and perfect backside, nearly short-circuited what remained of my brain function.

I stood frozen, dripping on the marble floor, wondering if I could possibly die from embarrassment.

The medical journals would have a field day with that case study: “First Documented Case of Fatal Mortification: Man Expires After Meeting Celebrity Crush While Half-Naked.”

He returned moments later, still completely naked and completely unconcerned about it, with a dark-blue t-shirt in hand.

Like he was delivering room service, except the room service was clothing and he was the naked one, which is pretty much the opposite of how service industry standards typically work.

“Here,” he said, offering it to me. “It’ll be big, but at least it’s dry.”

I stared at the shirt, then at him, then back at the shirt, desperately trying to keep my eyes above waist level. It was like trying not to look at the sun during an eclipse—you know it’s dangerous, but the temptation is almost impossible to resist. “I can’t take your clothes.”

“Would you prefer to walk through the house shirtless?” he asked, one eyebrow raised in challenge. “Not that I’d object, but I imagine it might cause quite a stir.”

My cheeks burned hotter than the surface of Venus. “When you put it that way…” I took the shirt, careful not to let our fingers touch. One more point of contact and I might spontaneously combust. “Thank you.”

I pulled it over my head, immediately engulfed in soft cotton that smelled like expensive cologne and something uniquely him—a scent I’d probably be able to identify blindfolded for the rest of my life.

The shirt hung almost to my knees and the sleeves reached my elbows, making me look like a child playing dress-up in their parents’ clothes.

Or worse, like I was wearing my boyfriend’s shirt after a night together.

Which was definitely not what happened here, brain, so please stop conjuring those images immediately.