Page 42 of Captivated By Alphas 1, Fated (The Blood Moon Chronicle #4)

Istared at my reflection in the guest bathroom mirror, a pathetic sight in borrowed clothes and lingering humiliation.

Sheena had ambushed me with an armful of what she called “the perfect solution” to my wet clothes problem.

The solution, apparently, was dressing me like a fantasy prince from one of those historical romance novels my grandmother secretly read—the ones with shirtless men clutching swooning women on the covers.

“Perfect,” I muttered to my reflection, tugging at the cream-colored silk blouse with—God help me—actual frills cascading from the cuffs. “Now I look exactly how I feel—ridiculous. Like I’m auditioning for Desperate Orphan Seeks Sugar Daddy: The Musical.”

The fitted pants were worse, if that was possible.

Black and tight enough to qualify as a second skin, they clung to parts of my anatomy that had no business being emphasized.

I turned slightly, catching sight of my backside in the mirror, and groaned.

These pants weren’t just fitted—they were a written invitation to check out my ass.

They might as well have had For Display Purposes Only embroidered across the back pockets.

“Sheena, I swear I’m going to murder you,” I whispered to my reflection. “Slowly. With your own designer stilettos.”

The memory of my behavior at the café suddenly slammed into me with the force of a freight train, making me want to crawl into the massive marble bathtub and disappear down the drain.

Had I actually pressed myself against Cole Carmichael like some desperate damsel in a bodice-ripper?

Had I really called him my “knight in shining Armani” loud enough for the entire café to hear?

Oh God. I had.

I dropped my forehead against the cool mirror with a dull thunk. “Congratulations, Eli. You’ve reached new heights of mortification. They should name an award after you. The Annual Eli Harper Trophy for Excellence in Public Humiliation. You’d win every year.”

What made it infinitely worse was that I couldn’t even blame temporary insanity. No, I’d been perfectly lucid when I decided that draping myself over a billionaire tech mogul was a brilliant escape strategy. And my body—my traitorous, hormone-addled body—had enjoyed every second of it.

Though to be fair, anything would have been better than another minute with Michael Huntington. Just thinking about him sent an involuntary shudder down my spine. There had been something… off about him. Something that made my skin crawl in a way I couldn’t rationalize.

Which was weird, because objectively speaking, Michael Huntington checked all the same boxes as the Carmichael cousins—wealthy, attractive, alpha shifter from a good family.

He should have registered somewhere on my embarrassing-celebrity-crush radar.

But instead of the warm, electric feeling I got around the cousins, Michael’s attention had triggered all my internal warning systems.

“Danger, Will Robinson,” I muttered, remembering how my stomach had knotted the moment he approached me.

I’d thrown up every verbal barrier I could think of, wielding sarcasm like a shield.

Each cutting remark had been designed to make him back off without causing a scene.

But nothing worked. Not even when I’d practically constructed a wall of salt-laden comebacks that would have sent any reasonable person running for the hills.

The weirdest part was that I couldn’t explain why I’d reacted so strongly.

Something about his smile never quite reached his eyes.

His laugh sounded rehearsed, like he was playing a role he’d studied but didn’t quite understand.

When he’d touched my arm, my skin had actually crawled—not figuratively, but a literal physical reaction like my body was trying to escape his touch.

It wasn’t just that I found him unattractive.

It was deeper than that—like some primal part of me recognized a threat my conscious mind couldn’t identify.

Which made absolutely no sense. I’d grown up around shifters.

I knew the Huntingtons were panther shifters just like the Carmichaels.

So why did one family make me feel safe while the other triggered every fight-or-flight response in my body?

And then there was the complete opposite reaction I had to the Carmichaels.

When Cole had appeared at the café, it was like my body had sighed in relief.

The way he’d looked at me after rescuing me…

like I was something he wanted to devour whole.

The same way Jace had looked at me in the bathroom.

The same way Adrian had looked at me at the lake.

That intensity should have scared me—should have triggered the same warning bells that Michael had—but instead, it felt…

right. Like coming home to a place I’d never been before.

Was there something wrong with me? Some kind of weird pheromone I was giving off that made the Carmichael cousins look at me like that? Or was I just projecting my own embarrassing crush onto their perfectly normal interactions?

“Maybe they’re filming a reality show,” I told my reflection. “Punk the Staff Kid: Celebrity Edition. The grand prize is my dignity, which apparently left town without leaving a forwarding address.”

I pushed away from the mirror and gathered my wet clothes, stuffing them into the plastic bag Madi had provided. My phone was still dead, probably water-damaged beyond repair. Just another delightful cherry on top of this disaster sundae.

A soft knock at the door made me jump so high I nearly hit the crystal chandelier.

“Eli?” Sheena’s voice. “Are you drowning in there or what? I need to see my masterpiece in action!”

I opened the door to find her leaning against the doorframe, perfectly styled as always despite the apocalyptic weather outside. Her eyes traveled from my face down to the outfit she’d forced on me and back up again, a triumphant smirk forming on her lips.

“Wow,” she said, circling me like a fashion predator assessing its prey. “I knew those pants would do amazing things for your ass, but this is actually better than I imagined. We’re talking Renaissance painting levels of perfection here.”

“Thanks for the fashion critique,” I replied, tugging uselessly at the billowy shirt. “I was just thinking my day needed that extra special touch of humiliation. Nothing says ‘take me seriously’ like looking as if I escaped from a Renaissance fair that caters exclusively to sugar babies.”

Sheena laughed, linking her arm through mine and practically dragging me into the hallway. “Come on, Lord Byron. The Wynters canceled because of the storm, so it’s just family for dinner. Mom says you’re eating with us.”

“I should help your mom and mine in the kitchen,” I protested weakly, digging my heels into the plush carpet.

“Please. Duncan would commit ritual seppuku with a butter knife if anyone interfered with his dinner service.” She steered me toward the dining room with surprising strength for someone whose biceps were probably smaller than my wrists.

“Besides, don’t you want to spend more quality time with my cousins?

All three of whom keep looking at the door like they’re expecting you to materialize if they stare hard enough? ”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” My voice rose to a pitch that probably only dogs could hear.

“Sure you don’t.” Sheena’s smirk could have powered a small city. “Just like you don’t have a magazine collection featuring all three of them in your bedroom.” She patted my cheek condescendingly. “It’s cute. Like watching a baby duck imprint on three very expensive sports cars.”

“I hate you,” I muttered without heat.

“No, you don’t. You love me because I’m the only one who tells you the truth.” She resumed dragging me toward the dining room. “And the truth is, you’re not the only one who’s interested.”

Before I could demand an explanation for that cryptic statement, we arrived at the dining room.

The massive table could seat twenty, but tonight it was set for an intimate family dinner of only eight—George and Madi at either end, with Paul, David, Sheena, and the three cousins arranged around the sides.

My mother was helping Duncan serve, while my father was probably battening down the hatches against the storm.

“Look who I found hiding in the bathroom,” Sheena announced, shoving me forward like a prize pig at the county fair. “I dressed him in some of my Paris finds. You’re welcome.”

Every head turned in my direction. I resisted the urge to check if my fly was down or if I had toilet paper stuck to my shoe. The weight of the collective Carmichael gaze was enough to make me consider spontaneous combustion as a viable escape option.

“If anyone needs me, I’ll be outside letting the storm wash away my dignity,” I muttered under my breath. “What’s left of it, anyway.”

The silence that followed Sheena’s announcement was deafening. Paul’s fork clattered against his plate as his mouth dropped open. David’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. But it was the three cousins whose reactions made my skin heat from the inside out.

Jace, who had been taking a sip of water, froze with the glass halfway to his lips, his eyes darkening from clear blue to something closer to midnight as they traveled slowly from my face down to my embarrassingly tight pants and back up again.

The look was so intense I could practically feel it like a physical touch trailing over my skin.

Adrian’s playful expression vanished, replaced by something hungry that made my heart stutter in my chest. His green eyes flashed with a hint of gold, reminding me of a predator spotting prey in the underbrush.

His tongue darted out to wet his lower lip in a gesture that shouldn’t have been erotic but somehow sent heat pooling in my stomach.