Torn Between The Alpha And The Billionaire

The old wooden hut creaked under Elijah's feet as he carried Mara's unconscious form inside. Golden light from the setting sun streamed through dusty windows, casting long shadows across the worn floorboards. With practiced ease, he laid a clean cloth over the narrow bed before gently placing her down.

Her clothes were caked with mud, her hair matted with dirt and leaves. Elijah sighed, running a hand through his dark hair as he considered his options. He couldn't leave her like this—the mud would ruin the bedding, and she'd be uncomfortable when she woke. But the alternative...

"Sorry about this," he muttered, though she couldn't hear him. With quick, clinical movements, he removed her mud-soaked clothing, immediately wrapping her in a soft, worn robe he found hanging near the bed. His movements were efficient and respectful, his eyes never lingering. Once she was covered, he used a damp cloth to clean the mud from her face and hair, his touch gentle despite his obvious strength.

The shelf of colored vials caught his attention as he worked. Where had that old man kept the memory-erasing potion? His eyes scanned the rainbow collection of glass containers, but none bore the distinctive midnight blue he sought. Frustrated, he ran his fingers along the labels, some so old they had begun to peel away.

"Of all the times to be away," he muttered, thinking of the old man who owned the hut. He'd have to wait. For now, he retreated to the tiny kitchen, its rough-hewn counters and ancient wood stove a reminder of simpler times.

* * *

Consciousness returned to Mara slowly, like wading through thick fog. Her head throbbed, a dull ache that seemed to pulse in time with her heartbeat. The pain in her neck was sharper, more focused, and memory flooded back with it—strong fingers, impossible speed, eyes that glowed like embers in the dark.

She kept her eyes closed, trying to assess her situation. The surface beneath her was soft—a bed? The air smelled of wood smoke and herbs, with an underlying metallic tang she couldn't quite identify. She was alive, which meant... what? If he'd wanted to kill her, she'd already be dead.

Her eyes fluttered open, taking in the rough wooden ceiling above her. As she shifted, she became aware of the soft fabric against her skin—different from her clothes. Her clothes! She sat up with a start, spotting her mud-covered garments piled neatly on the floor. Someone had changed her. Someone had...

The thought sent a shiver down her spine, but she pushed it aside. Escape first, process everything else later. Her bare feet touched the cool wooden floor as she stood, moving as quietly as she could toward the door. The old hinges looked like they might creak, but maybe if she was careful—

"It's rude to leave a house without telling the owner." Elijah's voice carried from behind her, calm and almost amused.

Mara's shoulders slumped. Running would be pointless—she'd seen his speed in the forest. Whatever he was, whatever was happening, she was completely at his mercy. She turned slowly, expecting to see a monster.

Instead, she saw a man holding two plates of food, steam rising from what appeared to be some kind of meat. His expression was neutral, almost casual, as if this were a completely normal dinner between friends.

"I hope you're not a vegan," he said, placing the plates on a worn wooden table. "All I had was meat."

Mara watched him sit down and begin eating, her mind struggling to process the surreal situation. Her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn't eaten anything substantial since that chocolate bar hours ago. Slowly, cautiously, she approached the table and sat down.

The meat was barely cooked, pink in the middle and surprisingly tough, but her hunger won out over any hesitation. Besides, she reasoned, if he'd wanted to harm her, he'd had plenty of opportunities. She watched him eat, noting how he tore into the meat with practiced efficiency, like someone who had done this countless times before.

"Why did you kill him?" The question slipped out before she could stop it, her journalist's instincts overriding her fear.

Elijah didn't even pause in his eating. "If I hadn't, he would have killed me." His tone was matter-of-fact, as if discussing the weather rather than murder.

Mara's fork stopped halfway to her mouth. "Who..." she swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. "What are you?"

This time Elijah did pause, just for a moment, before resuming his meal. "I'm what you humans would call a werewolf," he said simply. "Same as that body you found."

A laugh bubbled up in Mara's throat—harsh, hysterical—but died as quickly as it came. The pieces were falling into place like a jigsaw puzzle she wished she'd never started: the inhuman speed, the glowing eyes, the strange strength. The fur-covered arm in the forest. The way he moved, somehow both graceful and predatory.

Her fork clattered to the plate as the full weight of understanding crashed over her. Werewolves were real. Werewolves were real, and she was sitting across from one, eating dinner in a remote cabin after he had knocked her unconscious and changed her clothes.

Words failed her completely. The world she had known, the rules she had lived by, were crumbling around her. And in their place was something ancient and dangerous, something that had been hiding in the shadows of humanity's certainty all along.

Elijah continued eating as if he hadn't just shattered her entire worldview, but his dark eyes watched her carefully, waiting to see how she would process this new reality.

Mara's journalism instinct made her ask, "You said that if you didn't kill the other werewolf, he would've killed you. Why did you want to kill each other?"

Elijah stopped eating for a bit, his jaw tightening. Then, in a low voice, he said, "Because I shouldn't have been born. And now my brother is trying to kill me."

Mara rested the end of her spoon on her chin, poking at the meat on her plate. "What do you mean by not having been born? And why would your brother want to kill you? Is it a werewolf thing?"

Elijah sighed and set his spoon down, his gaze dark and unreadable. "You ask too many questions for someone who'll soon forget all this."

Mara's eyes widened. "Wait, what?"

Mara's heart pounded as she gripped the spoon tighter. "What do you mean I'll soon forget all this?" she asked again, her voice edged with concern.

Elijah opened his mouth to respond, but then his head snapped to the side, his entire body tensing as if he had sensed something. Without warning, he grabbed Mara and tucked her head down.

"Get down," he ordered.

Before Mara could process what was happening, the first bullet ripped through the wooden walls of the hut. Then another. And another. The air filled with the sharp crack of gunfire as silver bullets tore through the fragile structure.

Mara's breath hitched. Her body froze as wood splintered around her, shards flying past her face. The metallic scent of silver filled the air, mixing with the dust kicked up from the impact.

Her hands trembled. Her chest tightened. This is real. This is actually happening.

"Elijah—" she tried to speak, but her voice barely came out, drowned by the chaos.

Elijah, on the other hand, was terrifyingly calm. His expression was tight but focused, his breathing steady as he analyzed their situation. Then, with a low curse, he muttered, "Shit."

He turned to her, his voice firm. "Follow me. Keep your head low."

Mara's hands clenched into fists. Her legs felt like they weren't hers as she tried to move, but fear weighed her down. Who was shooting at them? Why?

Her body was screaming at her to stay put, to curl into a ball and hope the bullets stopped. But then she saw Elijah already moving, his body low, his movements sharp and precise.

He wasn't scared.

And if he wasn't scared, she couldn't afford to be either.

Swallowing her panic, she forced her legs to move and crawled after him, her heart hammering so loud she could barely hear her own breathing.

Elijah led the way, moving swiftly as bullets continued to rip through the hut. Amara followed, crawling over the rough wooden floor, her breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. Her hands were scraped, her legs ached, but she forced herself to keep moving.

They reached a corner of the hut where Elijah stopped and yanked open a wooden hatch. The old wood groaned as it revealed a narrow underground staircase, plunging into pitch-black darkness. Cold air rushed up from below, sending a chill down Amara's spine.

"Get in," Elijah ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Amara hesitated. Go down there? With him? The darkness stretched out like an open mouth, swallowing everything below.

Her pulse pounded in her ears. This is insane. I don't even know him. He's not human. I just saw a body he killed, and now I'm supposed to follow him into a hole?

Fear clenched her chest, rooting her in place. But then another bullet whizzed past, splintering the wood inches from her head. She flinched, gasping.

What choice do I have? Stay here and get torn apart by bullets, or take a gamble and follow Elijah.

Her decision was clear.

Her mother always said she was the type to take a gamble.

Gritting her teeth, Amara forced her feet to move and stepped into the darkness.