Claimed by My Bestie's Alpha Daddy novel Chapter 145

I should have gone to Simon. The longer I avoided it, the worse it got I wasn’t even making up new excuses anymore. I just sidestepped hallways, stayed conveniently busy, and smiled with a steadiness that didn’t quite meet my eyes.

It wasn’t about fear, not exactly. It was about controt. If l didn’t go, then maybe I wasn’t spiraling. Maybe everything could still be handled on my terms.

Besides, there were more pressing things to deal with.

The plaza outside the council chambers had been cleared and staged for a midday press event. I stood beside Richard at the front of the temporary platform, the weight of fifty cameras aimed squarely at us. Reporters packed the line, drones hovered above, and councilors flanked the platform edges, trying to project calm authority in the autumn sun.

I wore the blazer with the highest collar I owned. The one Jenny once said made me look like a war widow.

Richard’s speech was short and deliberately neutral It was meant as a public reassurance. We’re aware, we’re prepared, and everything is under control

It would have worked if not for the protester.

They moved from the crowd like a ripple disturbing still water. I saw the motion of their arm before I saw theirface. A metal vial arced through the air. For one absurd moment, I thought it might be perfume.

The canister burst as it struck the edge of the stage. A spray of vivid red hit the front row. It soaked the hem of my coat and splashed across Richard’s forearm. It wasn’t quite paint, and it wasn’t quite blood. The substance hovered somewhere between, sharp with metallic scent and an acidic edge that stung my nose.

Before I could react, Richard flinched. The edge of the canister had sliced through his coat. A shallow cut bloomed across his arm, and cameras caught every detail.

My stomach turned, and something deeper rose with it.

The scent of his blood hit me with a force I couldn’t prepare for. My knees threatened to buckle. My throat tightened. My vision narrowed to nothing but that wound and the scent spilling from it. I gripped the podium to keep from moving. Every instinct screamed at me to go to him, to touch, to taste. My mouth watered in a way that made me feel sick.

I held my breath. Grounded myself. Focused on the texture of the wood under my palms, on the fabric of my sleeves, on the frantic shuffle of camera crews adjusting their focus.

The blood smell didn’t dissipate. It clung to the fibers of my coat, crawled up into my sinuses, burrowed in like a second heartbeat. I could feel the pressure of it behind my eyes. My thighs clenched without permission. I squeezedmy knees together and exhaled slowly through my nose

When I looked back up, I kept my expression flat.

But I already knew I’d slipped.

The footage hit PackNet within the hour. David’s team • wasted no time. They clipped the moment with precision, the protest, the splash of red, the flicker of hunger in my eyes.

There was no narration. No headline was needed. Just me, caught wanting.

Simon issued a technical advisory almost immediately.

The statement described chemical interference from unauthorized compounds. Testing confirmed micro-transmitters embedded in the dye. Their frequencies could react with bell harmonics, triggering neurological responses in those already sensitive to them.

It was true. Or at least not false. But it wasn’t the full story.

Richard offered to speak on my behalf. I told him not to.

Defending me now would only pour fuel on the fire.

So I fled to the archives.

The silence helped. There were no reporters, no whispers trailing behind me. Just schematics, old maps, and circuit diagrams in ink and dust. I unrolled everything across a long table and traced the links between bell nodes and resonance tunnels, trying to see what they’d heard before anyone else did.

The lines on the page started to blur. My fingers trembled.

I hadn’t eaten. I hadn’t slept. I wasn’t even pretending anymore.

That was where Richard found me.

I didn’t turn when he entered. I felt him. The scrape of his boots on stone, the shift in the room. He paused halfway down the aisle.

“You need to rest,” he said, his voice quiet but steady.

“I need answers.”

“You’re burning through yourself.”

“I know.”

“You were bleeding, and I…” I said, still not looking at him.

“In front of everyone.”

“I noticed.”

“I almost lost control.”

His voice was quiet, but firm. “You never stopped mattering.”

He was close now. I hadn’t noticed him move. That heat between us pulsed to life again. It wasn’t just desire. It was grief and craving and familiarity.

He leaned in. So did I.

Our noses brushed. Our lips hovered.

And then I pulled back.

“No,” I said, my voice thin. “Not right now.”

His breath came slower. “Right. Discipline.”

“Just for tonight.”

He nodded, but didn’t move away. He reached up and brushed his thumb along the edge of my jaw. I leaned intothe touch without meaning to.

“You scared me today,” he said softly.

“I scared myself.”

He let his hand fall and stepped back.

“You’re not alone in this.”

And for a moment, I let myself believe it.

Even as I stepped away, my chest still ached with the hunger was trying to control. The craving didn’t dull. It just curled in tighter.

And the scent of his blood still lingered in the back of my throat, sharp and wrong and addicting.

I wasn’t sure which terrified me more, that I’d want it again, or that next time, I wouldn’t be able to stop.