Page 5 of Stalked By the Alphas

4

NOAH

Staring at the app on my phone, I watch Hazel through the hidden camera I installed in her bookshop, observing her reactions with clinical detachment as I sit on a bench in the small park at the back of her house, where people walk their dogs and play cricket in the summer. The masked magician card was a particularly inspired touch. I knew her childhood trauma would resurface, further destabilising her fragile mental state. There are dozens of people who still, to this day, remember Hazel’s reaction to the masked magician at Leah’s party, but there is only one person she confided in about what the magician did to her. One drunken night, about a year before she left us, she cried on my shoulder and confessed all. I don’t know if she remembers doing so. She was fine the next morning and never mentioned it again.

So, neither did I. I knew it would be information that would come in handy one day .

Today is that day.

Her hands shake as she tries to serve customers, her smile brittle and forced. Zooming in, her fear and anxiety are evident even through the screen. I make a note in my journal, documenting her physiological responses.

Pulse elevated. Pupils dilated. Increased perspiration. Classic fight-or-flight response.

My phone buzzes with a text from Carter.

Sit rep

I type back quickly:

Moving in now.

Subtle, got it?

I give the phone the finger. I’m not known for being subtle, and I’m not going to start now.

I close the journal and stash it in my coat pocket. Keeping my phone in my hand, trained on Hazel, I stand up and make my way around to the front of her house.

Knowing there is only a Yale lock on this door, a standard one at that, I pull out my lock-picking set. This will be a true test of my abilities on the fairly busy high street with nosy neighbours in their homes with nothing better to do than curtain-twitch.

Taking my moment when this end of the street is less busy, I stride over to the door and slide the tension wrench into the lock and begin manipulating the pins, making it look like I’m unlocking it with a key. My fingers move deftly, feeling for the subtle clicks that indicate each pin setting into place. I remain calm and focused. Years of honing this skill have made me confident in my abilities. Within seconds, I feel the final pin click into place, and the lock turns smoothly.

Without looking back, I slip inside Hazel’s cottage and close the door quietly behind me. The familiar scent of jasmine and vanilla envelops me, stirring something primal deep within my soul. I let out a soft growl, and part of me hopes she comes home so I can surprise her and overpower her, claiming her while she screams.

I want that visceral response from her. Ever since she told me about the abuse she suffered, I want to see it. I want to feel it. I want to be the cause of that fear. It’s sick. It’s twisted. It’s a fantasy that remains buried deep most days. But most days, I’m not surrounded by her scent, her things, her life. This wait has been torture. But she has pulled away from us and we all know it’s because she doesn’t want the pact. We coaxed her into it, drunk and high on summer. The next day she left without a word and none of us have heard from her since. It ripped my heart out, but we have waited. We have planned. We have timed this to absolute perfection, and once we have her exactly where we want her, she will be powerless to resist us.

For now, I need to focus.

Moving silently through the small space, I take in my surroundings. Everything is meticulously organised, almost obsessively so. Books are arranged not only alphabetically on the shelves but also by height. Throw pillows are perfectly aligned on the sofa. Clinically speaking, this shows her growing anxiety and desperate need for control.

Unable to stay away, I go to her bedroom, careful not to disturb anything. Yet.

Opening her wardrobe, I select a cardigan. A purple one. Her favourite colour. Pulling out a small pair of scissors, I cut a tiny hole in the sleeve, just large enough to be noticeable but small enough to seem like an accident. Hanging it back up, I fight the urge to bury my face in her clothes. Closing the wardrobe door, I move to her dressing table. I pick up her hairbrush and turn it over. Nothing dramatic, just enough to plant seeds of doubt for her sanity.

Checking the phone, I see Hazel is still busy with her busload of customers. I place it on the dressing table, propped up against the mirror. Pulling open the top drawer, I draw in a deep breath, and my cock goes rock hard. Staring down at her underwear, I brush my fingers lightly over the cotton knickers that make me smile. But I know she has to have something sexier in the back. She is trying to catch an alpha, after all. Dragging the drawer out further, I spot the silk and lace at the back and carefully pick up a pair of knickers, careful not to disturb the others neatly piled next to them.

Holding them up, I imagine how they would look, hugging Hazel’s curves, covering her pussy, which goes damp when I kiss her skin with my blade, and seeing the blood well up so I can taste it. My cock strains as I bring the delicate fabric to my nose, inhaling deeply. Her scent floods my senses, making me growl low in my throat. Carter said to be subtle, but I can’t. Not now that I’m here, so close to her. I unzip my trousers and pull out my cock. Leaning over to flick the phone to video, I angle it at my crotch and press record. Draping the knickers over my cock, I close my hand around it, fisting it tightly. Stifling my low groan, I tug slowly at first, relishing the sensation.

As I stroke myself with the silkiness of Hazel’s underwear, I imagine it’s her soft skin beneath my rough hands. I picture her beneath me, squirming and begging for more. Her full breasts bouncing with each thrust, her light green eyes clouded with lust and submission. A drop of pre-cum leaks from my swollen tip, staining the lace darker. My balls tighten in response to imagining our tiny omega on her knees, begging us to fuck away her sins.

My grip tightens on my cock, and I pump harder. I’m close. So fucking close. I know I should stop, but I can’t.

With a muttered grunt, I climax, catching the cum on her knickers as I dump my load all over the soft material. Leaning forward again, I stop the recording and flick back to the camera app. Hazel is still busy.

Good.

I fold up her knickers, making sure to keep my cum on the inside so when she decides to wear these, they will be stuck together. A twisted smile crosses my lips as I shove them back into the drawer and stash my dick.

“Time to move, Noah. You’ve wasted enough time. There is just one more disturbance for her to find downstairs.”

“Yes,” I reply to myself, closing the drawer carefully and picking up my phone. “Just one more.”

Careful not to disturb anything else, I make my way back downstairs. In the kitchen, I open the fridge and pull out a bottle of water. They are all lined up neatly, with the labels facing outward. I replace it back to front and close the door.

I slip out the front door as easily as I entered and go on my way as if nothing is wrong in this world.

But in Hazel’s world, she is about to find out that nothing is as it seems.