Page 9 of Stalked By the Alphas

8

ZACH

Perusing the shop filled to the brim with handcrafted bric-a-brac and expensive ornaments, I pause in front of a masculine figurine dressed in a black suit with tears rolling down his cheeks. It’s creepy as fuck, and Hazel will slide further down the slope if she sees it, even more so if I put a little homemade mask on it.

“Interesting choice,” the omega assistant says, sidling over, all tits and hips, her blonde hair falling around her perfectly made-up face. She smells like Christmas. “You have a thing for sad dolls?” She reaches out and runs her fingertips over my arm.

I snatch my arm back and glare at her. I am off-limits. Not a single soul can touch me apart from Hazel. I won’t do that to her, even though my cock is desperate for a wet pussy to slide into, especially during the rut; I will wait as long as it takes. I’ve waited this long. I can wait longer for her .

I take a step back from the omega, my jaw clenching. “Not particularly,” I mutter, turning away from her and the disturbing figurine. “Leave me to browse.”

My eyes scan the shop, taking in the eclectic mix of items. It’s exactly the kind of place Hazel would love, full of quirky, unique pieces. I can picture her here, spending hours combing through every item with delight. The thought brings a smile to my face.

But I’m not here to let my mind wander. I’m here on a mission.

The omega’s eyes widen at my harsh tone, but she recovers quickly, plastering on a flirtatious smile. “Well, if you need any help, just let me know.”

I ignore her, turning back to the male figurine. Its painted-on tears glisten in the shop’s fluorescent lighting, eerily lifelike. I can’t take my eyes off it.

Without thinking, I reach out and pick it up, turning it over in my hands. The porcelain is cool against my skin, and the black silk outfit is smooth and pristine. I imagine Hazel’s reaction if she were to see this in her shop: the fear in her eyes, the tremble in her hands.

“I’ll take it,” I say abruptly.

She blinks in surprise but recovers quickly. “Of course. I’ll wrap that up for you.”

As she busies herself behind the counter, I pull out my phone and scroll through the photos I’ve taken of Hazel over the years. She thinks she escaped us, thinks she can live without us, but she is wrong. Dead wrong. I grip the phone tighter as I study one photo in particular. I took this the night before she left us. She passed out from too much alcohol and is laid out in Carter’s bed. Her delicate features are soft with sleep, her chestnut hair tousled on the pillow. Her gorgeous tits with their pink nipples are there for me to see anytime I want to look at them. I violated her privacy and stripped her for my own viewing pleasure. I could’ve claimed her right there, and she would’ve been powerless to stop me, but where is the fun in that? All I did was look and gently touch the peaked nipples, maybe I coated my fingers in her slick before I licked them clean. I was restrained. I could’ve done so much more.

I should have.

With a low growl, I slam the phone down on the counter, startling the assistant. If I had claimed her that night, she never would’ve left us. She wouldn’t have been able to. None of us expected her to cut ties with us, to simply remove us from her life like we didn’t matter to her. It is a wound that has festered and grown deeper and more painful as the years passed. The three of us feel it down to our very souls and will punish her for leaving us so callously. We already are. She is spiralling, but we want her completely broken so she knows how much she hurts us. Then, when she begs us for our forgiveness, begs us for her life, begs us to claim her, we will take her and make her ours and cherish her as we are meant to. As we were always meant to. There isn’t a chance in hell she will suddenly decide to go through with the pact. That is wishful thinking. So, we have to make her. Plain and simple.

I pick up the phone again and stare at it with a loving smile, no longer angry with her again. Although that will return, my affection for her has flared up. My beautiful, paranoid little omega. If only she knew how safe she really was, how protected she truly is. We’ve been watching over her all this time, making sure no other alphas get too close. She belongs to us, even if she doesn’t know it yet.

The assistant clears her throat, pulling me from my thoughts. “Will there be anything else?”

I shake my head, pocketing my phone and reaching for my wallet. As I pay, my eyes drift to a display of delicate glass figurines near the register. One, in particular, catches my eye. It’s a small, fragile-looking ballerina frozen mid-pirouette.

“I’ll take that as well,” I say, pointing to the figurine.

The assistant nods and carefully wraps the second item. I imagine snapping the head off and placing the figurine on Hazel’s nightstand, a beautiful, breakable thing to remind her of her own vulnerability.

“Have a nice day,” the assistant calls as I leave, the bell above the door chiming.

I step out onto the busy street, my purchases tucked securely under my arm. The sun is blazing, and the heat is oppressive. I loosen my collar, feeling sweat beading on my skin.

Pocketing my phone, I make my way back to my car to drive the few miles to the neighbouring village where Hazel lives and works. I will have to wait until after she has locked up for the evening to break in and place the figurine in her bookshop. The dancer is for another time. For when we get closer to our goal. I pull up in the small car park a little way down from where Hazel’s bookshop is. I sit and observe, seeing customers come and go as time ticks away, just waiting for a glance of Hazel.