Page 54 of Chained By the Alpha (Claimed Duet #1)

“You’re being unreasonable,” he mutters, pushing off the bed. “I’m protecting you!”

“Protecting me or protecting yourself?” I challenge. “Are you scared that I’m a mistake or just another pawn in your game against my father?”

“Damn it, Cleo, you know that’s not true!” His tattooed arms tense, muscles coiling beneath his skin, evidence of his frustration—or perhaps restraint.

“Then prove it! Show me, Zayn!” I demand, seeking an answer that seems to slip further away with each breath.

“Proving it isn’t about sleeping together,” he says firmly. “It’s about building something real, something lasting. Can’t you see that?”

“Can’t you see that every time you pull away, it makes me feel unwanted!” Tears blur my vision, but pride keeps them from falling. “Every time you stop, it feels like you regret even touching me!”

“Stop saying that,” Zayn growls, and for a moment, Zarek, his wolf, seems to flicker behind those silver eyes. “You are not a regret. You could never be a regret.”

“Then why does it feel like you’re using me?” The accusation hangs heavy between us, a suffocating cloud of doubt. “Is this just revenge against my father? Because if it is, I swear—”

“Revenge?” He steps back as if struck, hurt flashing across his features before they harden like stone. “Do you seriously think I would go this far for revenge?”

“Wouldn’t you? As soon as things get serious, you retreat, like I’m some sort of... mistake you’re trying to correct.” My voice cracks, revealing the fear beneath the anger.

“Being with you is the one thing I’m certain of,” he insists, yet his posture wavers, betraying his words.

“It’s not a big deal. You’re making it one.

There is nothing wrong with waiting; the last couple of weeks have been hard enough with the drama with your father without me having to fight you on this, too. ” Zayn tells me.

“Is that it? The disgraced Alpha’s daughter, painted a whore for the world to see; suddenly you’re embarrassed.”

“Stop putting words in my mouth. I never said that.” He rubs his temples and sighs heavily, as if the weight of the world rests solely on his shoulders.

“Cleo, I am not arguing with you over this; I want to wait. You should want to, too. You’re making a big deal out of nothing. You should have your wolf.”

“I’m an adult; I don’t need my wolf to tell me that.”

“According to human laws, not werewolf ones, and the fact you’re arguing with me over this shows your maturity.” His words sting more than if he slapped me. Tears prick my eyes.

He clicks his tongue and curses under his breath, realizing what he said. “I didn’t mean it like that, I…” he reaches for me, and I pull away.

He stands, his muscles tensing, the struggle plain in his posture. “I think... I need to clear my head. I should check on the club and handle some things in the city.”

“Go, then,” I spit out, feeling the sting of tears in my eyes.

“I wouldn’t want you to be caught with jailbait.

” Not that I am. Legally, I am an adult; it’s just an unspoken law for she-wolves to wait until they have their wolves, a way of ensuring women remain pure while the men can do what they want.

He knows it, and I know it. They say it’s law, however it’s not written formally.

If I can vote on city stuff and within the pack councils, I am a legal adult.

Getting your wolf is kind of like hitting puberty, or in our case, adulthood, in a sense.

It’s frowned upon since the exchange of fluids can influence she-wolves just like saliva can force a sire bond when healing.

Yet I never sired to Deacon, and now being with Zayn for the last few months, I know my feelings for him are real, so is it so wrong?

“Damn it, Cleo, that’s not fair,” he growls, the sound almost inhuman, his wolf clearly close to the surface.

He turns toward the door, and my hand shoots out to grab his arm, a desperate attempt to get him to stay.

“Zayn, please—”

He spins around with such force, I lose my footing, and it’s not just Zayn who faces me—it’s Zarek, too. His wolf is there, just beneath the surface, with silver eyes blazing with an intensity that nearly knocks the breath from my lungs.

“Let go, Cleo,” he growls, the deep rumble resonating with a power that’s both terrifying and enthralling.

“Zayn…” The word escapes as a gasp, my fingers still clutched around his firm bicep, feeling the tremors of the beast within him.

He shakes his head, a shudder rippling through him, a battle unfolding before my eyes. “I can’t stay. I’m struggling to keep control.”

“Wait.” My plea hangs between us, drenched in desperation.

“No. It’s better if I go. There’s something I need to do, anyway. I need to check on the club after the rogue attack.” His voice is strained, coated with the effort of restraint.

“Take me with you,” I insist, the thought of being left behind adding another layer to the rejection already weighing me down.

“Damn it, Cleo, I need to be away from you for a damn moment.” He pulls away, and the absence of his touch feels like ice spreading through my veins.

“If you want me to leave, just say it.” I spit the words out, anger unfurling.

“That’s not it,” he says, yet the conviction I crave isn’t there. “Right now, I can’t trust myself around you, not with Zarek, this close to the edge. He marks you, there is no going back; I have already marked you. Isn’t that enough until you get your wolf?”

“Fantastic.” Bitterness taints my tone—a cocktail of hurt and defiance. “So I’m to be punished because your wolf can’t handle proximity?”

“Dammit, Cleo, it’s not like that!” Frustration creases his brow. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“From what? From you?” My laugh is hollow and void of humor. “Or are you protecting yourself from me?”

“Stop twisting my words!” He’s shouting now, the walls echoing with the sound of his annoyance.

“Fine!” The finality in my voice scares even me. “Go check your club. Do what you have to do.” I wave him off, moving toward the bathroom to finish my shower.

“Enough, Cleo. I get your wolf is close to coming forward, and it’s making you unreasonably angry, but I have mine, and you’re pushing his buttons.” It’s a warning wrapped in resignation, and it stings more than any rebuke.

“Just go, Zayn,” I tell him, and he moves toward the walk-in closet to get changed.

He pauses at the door, his silhouette a dark reminder of everything we’re on the brink of losing.

Without another word, he walks out, and I’m left with the echo of our heated argument and the fear that this time, he will tell me to leave.

The moment I hear the door slam shut downstairs, guilt and humiliation slam into me violently, and I wish I could take back everything I said.