Page 52 of Captivated By Alphas 1, Fated (The Blood Moon Chronicle #4)

Idragged myself down the grand staircase of the Carmichael mansion with all the grace and dignity of a zombie in a bargain bin horror movie.

My encounter with Jace in the hallway had left me more rattled than a maraca in a washing machine and painfully aware that I looked like something the cat regurgitated after a particularly wild night out.

Sheena’s borrowed clothes from yesterday were doing me exactly zero favors.

“Borrowed” was generous—”inflicted upon me” would be more accurate.

The silk shirt had somehow acquired more wrinkles overnight than a centenarian sunbathing in the desert, and the tight pants were cutting off circulation to parts of my anatomy I’d rather keep fully functional, thank you very much.

At least I’d managed to wash my face and attempt to tame my hair, though judging by Jace’s reaction earlier, I’d failed spectacularly at the latter.

“Your hair’s a mess,” he’d said, his fingers lingering in my platinum disaster zone like he was petting some exotic animal.

The touch had sent electric currents straight to parts of me that had no business getting excited at eight a.m. Who knew bedhead could be such an aphrodisiac to Hollywood royalty?

I was halfway down the stairs, contemplating whether faking my own death would get me out of breakfast service, when a familiar voice called out, “There you are! I’ve been waiting for you!”

I turned to see Sheena emerging from her room, already dressed in what appeared to be casual loungewear.

Her hair was perfectly styled despite the early hour, and she wore just enough makeup to look effortlessly beautiful.

The Carmichaels didn’t just wake up like this—they emerged from their silk cocoons fully formed, like designer butterflies with trust funds and perfect bone structure.

“No,” I said immediately, recognizing the predatory gleam in her eyes—the same look a lion gets right before it pounces on an unsuspecting gazelle.

“Whatever you’re thinking, the answer is no.

N-O. Two letters forming a complete sentence that means ‘Eli is not your personal Ken doll, and this is not the Sheena Carmichael Makeover Hour.’”

“You haven’t even heard what I’m going to say,” she pouted, grabbing my arm and tugging me toward her room with surprising strength for someone who considers lifting shopping bags a workout.

“I don’t need to,” I protested, digging in my heels like a toddler refusing bath time. “Your face has that ‘Eli is my personal dress-up doll’ expression. It’s the same look you get when you see a stray puppy or a clearance rack at Barneys—equal parts pity and unholy glee.”

“Because you need it,” she insisted, managing to drag me into her suite despite my resistance. For someone who weighed about as much as a damp tissue, she was remarkably strong. “Have you seen yourself this morning? You look like you were mauled by a pillow and then haunted it.”

“Poetic,” I muttered but allowed myself to be pulled into her room. Resistance was futile when Sheena got like this—it was like arguing with a tornado while standing in a trailer park. “I need to help my mom with breakfast.”

“You need to not look like the walking dead,” she countered, pushing me into her vanity chair with the authority of a five-star general. “Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking. Consider it humanitarian aid for everyone who has to look at you today.”

“Fine.” I sighed, knowing it would be faster to comply than argue. “But nothing ridiculous this time. I’m not wearing another frilly shirt. I looked like Lord Byron after a three-day bender at an opium den.”

“Please.” Sheena rolled her eyes, already rummaging through a garment rack that hadn’t been there yesterday.

The thing had materialized overnight like some kind of fashion-based supernatural entity.

“That was just to see my brother and cousins’ reactions.

Which, by the way, were exactly what I expected. ”

I felt heat creep up my neck. The way all three of them had looked at me yesterday—like I was a gourmet meal after a forty-day fast—was impossible to miss.

Every time one of them got within ten feet of me, my body went haywire.

It was like my nervous system had been replaced with live wires that only they knew how to activate.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I lied, my voice cracking like a thirteen-year-old boy asking someone to prom.

“Sure you don’t.” She smirked, pulling out a simple black V-neck and dark-gray pants. “And I’m not a social media influencer with twenty million followers. Here. These will work.”

I eyed the clothes suspiciously, waiting for the catch. “These seem… normal. Did you accidentally pack someone else’s clothes? Where are the sequins and unnecessary zippers? The leather straps? The holes in strategic places?”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” she huffed, tossing them at me with perfect aim. “I can do subtle when it’s called for. These will fit you perfectly while still letting you breathe. Unlike those torture devices I gave you yesterday.”

“You’re a sadist,” I informed her but took the clothes gratefully. “I think those pants permanently altered my circulation. My future children thank you for your mercy, assuming those parts of me still function after yesterday’s fabric strangulation.”

“Only when it’s fun.” She winked. “Change. I’ll turn around.”

I quickly changed into the new outfit, relieved to be out of yesterday’s clothes.

The black V-neck was soft against my skin and fit me perfectly, and the pants were similarly well tailored but actually comfortable.

I suspected they cost more than my monthly rent at school, but at least they weren’t actively trying to sever my femoral arteries.

“You can turn around now,” I said, smoothing down the shirt. “I’m decent. Well, clothed at least. The jury’s still out on ‘decent.’”

Sheena spun back to face me, her eyes lighting up like she’d just discovered a new species. “Perfect! Now sit down. I need to fix that disaster you call hair.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?” I asked defensively, even as I reluctantly sat. “It has character. It tells a story. The story is ‘I survived a tornado and all I got was this lousy bedhead,’ but still. It’s authentic.”

“What’s right with it would be a shorter list,” she muttered, grabbing a styling product.

“Did you stick your finger in an electrical socket? Is this a science experiment gone wrong? Are you hiding small woodland creatures in there? I’m half expecting a family of squirrels to emerge and thank me for the rescue. ”

“I was asleep until twenty minutes ago,” I reminded her. “Some of us don’t wake up looking like we stepped out of a magazine. My morning routine is ‘splash water on face, pray for caffeine, question life choices.’”

“Clearly,” she agreed, her fingers working through my hair with surprising gentleness. “Though my brother doesn’t seem to mind. Jace looked ready to eat you alive this morning.”

I choked on air. “He wasn’t exactly subtle about it.

” The memory of Jace’s eyes darkening as they swept over me sent another wave of heat through my body.

Every time he looked at me like that—like I was something he wanted to devour whole—my insides turned to liquid and my brain cells committed mass suicide.

“None of them are.” Sheena laughed. “I’ve never seen them like this before. It’s like watching three apex predators circling the same delicious prey. They’re practically salivating.”

“Thanks for the visual,” I muttered, heat creeping up my cheeks. “Really helps with my anxiety about becoming a Carmichael snack. Should I be carrying meat tenderizer as a defense weapon?”

“Oh, honey, you’d be the main course, not a snack,” she corrected with wicked delight, spinning me to face the mirror. “There. Now you look less like you were electrocuted and more like you’re worth a multimillion-dollar contract.”

My hair was now artfully tousled rather than chaotically messy, giving me a deliberately disheveled look that somehow worked. The kind of “I woke up like this” that actually takes an hour and three products to achieve.

“Not bad,” I admitted grudgingly. “You’ve upgraded me from ‘recently electrocuted’ to ‘indie band frontman with a trust fund.’”

“I’m not done,” she said, reaching for her makeup bag like a surgeon prepping for a particularly delicate operation. “You need some color. You’re so pale you’re practically translucent. I can see your life choices through your skin.”

“I don’t wear makeup,” I protested weakly. “My skincare routine is ‘hope for the best’ with occasional guest appearances by ‘whatever’s on sale at the drugstore.’”

“You do today,” she declared, selecting a small brush. “Just a touch. You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

That explained Jace’s concerned expression earlier. Great. Nothing says “good morning” like looking as if I’d spent the night wrestling with demons and losing spectacularly.

“Fine,” I conceded. “But nothing obvious. I’m not trying to look like I’m heading to a photoshoot. The goal is ‘alive human’ not ‘social media filter made flesh.’”

“Please,” she scoffed. “As if I’d waste my high-end products on that. This is just to make you look alive instead of recently exhumed. You’re giving ‘Victorian ghost child’ vibes right now.”

I sat still as she applied what she assured me was “just a touch” of makeup—some kind of tinted moisturizer, a hint of something on my cheekbones, and a clear balm on my lips.

The whole time, my skin tingled with the memory of how Jace’s fingers had felt in my hair that morning, how Adrian’s eyes had devoured me at the lake, how Cole’s voice had vibrated through me at the café.

“There,” she said, stepping back to admire her work like an artist unveiling a masterpiece. “Now you look human instead of vampire chic. Though with your coloring, you could totally pull off the undead look for Halloween.”