The Alpha Behind The Mask-Chapter 45: Killed A Man

Aurora’s POV

​At 8 PM, the apartment felt like a cage. My stomach was growling, and there was nothing in the kitchen but a half-empty box of crackers. Despite the throbbing in my side, the medicine and painkillers Dom Raymond had sent were working wonders; the sharp, stabbing pain had faded into a dull, manageable ache.

​I decided to walk a few blocks to a nearby diner to get something to eat. The night air was cool, and the streetlights cast long, flickering shadows on the pavement. I pulled my coat tighter around me, my mind drifting between the cold Alpha King in the mansion and the terrifyingly warm Dom in the club. 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝙚𝙬𝓮𝙗𝒏𝙤𝒗𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝒐𝓶

I was two blocks away when the hairs on the back of my neck rose in warning.

​I glanced back. A man was walking about twenty paces behind me. I picked up my pace, my heart starting to thud against my ribs. I turned a corner quickly, hoping to lose him, but the heavy tread of boots on concrete followed right behind me.

​I panicked. I tried to run, but a sharp spike of pain in my side reminded me I wasn’t at a hundred percent. Before I could reach the main road, a hand clamped over my mouth, and I was violently jerked backward into a dark, narrow alleyway between two brick buildings.

​I screamed into his palm, but he slammed me against the cold brick wall. A glint of steel flashed in the dim light as he pressed a knife directly against my windpipe.

​"Scream again and I’ll slit your throat before the sound leaves your mouth," he hissed.

​My eyes widened, searching his face. He was just a human—a mere human—but he was strong, and he was desperate.

​"Take my phone... my money..." I whispered, the blade stinging my skin.

​The man scoffed, a disgusting, toothy grin spreading across his face. "Why would I want that when I can have you?" His eyes raked over my body with a hunger that made my skin crawl. "You’re going to be a good girl and keep quiet while I fuck you. Or else, I’ll slice your throat and still fuck your corpse. Your choice, sweetheart."

​Horror, cold and paralyzing, washed over me. I felt his hand reach down, bunching up the fabric of my gown, pulling it up as he forced my legs apart. He spun me around, slamming my chest against the rough brick and arching my back, the knife never leaving the sensitive skin of my neck.

​My life flashed before my eyes. I hadn’t survived the raid on my family, the loss of my wolf, and staying away from men to have my dignity stolen by a common molester in a gutter. I didn’t care about the pain in my ribs anymore. It was better to die fighting than let this monster take my virginity.

​I didn’t know where the strength came from—perhaps it was the dormant werewolf blood still in my veins—but I moved. I twisted my body, stomping my heel onto his ankle with everything I had. As he let out a grunt of pain, his grip on the knife faltered for a second.

​That was all I needed.

​I grabbed his wrist, twisting it until I heard a snap. The knife fell, and I caught it before it hit the ground. Without thinking, fueled by a decade of repressed rage and tonight’s terror, I drove the blade straight into his chest.

​I didn’t stop. I pulled it out and drove it in again, and again, until I felt the blade sink deep into his heart.

​The man let out a wet, gurgling groan. He looked at me with shock, his hands clutching at the air before he crumpled to the ground, falling numb at my feet.

​I stood over him, blood slipping from my fingers. My breath was coming in ragged, broken gasps. I looked at the dark pool spreading across the concrete. I had just killed someone.

​The man’s eyes were still open, but the light had vanished from them, leaving only a glassy, vacant stare. The alley was silent, save for the sound of my own frantic heart hammering against my chest like a trapped bird.

​I had killed him. I had actually killed him.

​The awful smell of blood filled my nose, making my stomach churn with a violent nausea. I looked at my shaking hands, then back at the knife protruding from his chest.

​Terrified, I stumbled back, my legs feeling like lead. I needed to get away. I needed to run. But where?

​The hospital? No, they’d call the police.

​My thoughts raced and landed on Alpha Oliver. He was the most powerful man in this region, and I couldn’t think of anyone better to help me in this situation than him.

​With trembling fingers, I pulled out the phone. My vision was blurred with tears as I scrolled through my call log.

​I dialed. Once. Twice. No answer.

​I redialed. My panic was rising; a fear gripped me that threatened to swallow me whole. I called again and again—ten times, twenty, fifty. Every missed call felt like a nail in my coffin. I was standing in a dark alley with a corpse, and the only man who could help me wasn’t picking up.

​"Pick up, Oliver, please," I whimpered, the words lost in the suffocating silence of the alley. I stared at the man’s glassy eyes, half-expecting him to twitch, to grab my ankle, or to drag me down into the dark pool of blood with him, but he didn’t. He remained lifeless.

​The sound of a distant siren sent a jolt of pure electricity through my limbs. Panic, sharp and cold, finally broke the paralysis. I couldn’t stay here. If the police found me standing over a corpse with blood on my hands, they wouldn’t see a girl defending her life; they’d see a murderer.

​I turned and ran.

​Every step was agony. My ribs felt like they were being crushed by a stone, and the smell of blood seemed to cling to my hair, my skin, and my very clothes. I didn’t stop until I reached my apartment, fumbling with the keys with hands that refused to stop shaking. I threw myself inside, bolted every lock on the door, and collapsed against the wood, sliding down to the floor.

​I tried Alpha Oliver’s line again. Once. Five times. Ten.

​"Damn it, Oliver!" I screamed at the silent phone. He wasn’t picking up. The most powerful man in the city, the only man who could help me in this situation, was unreachable.

​I looked at my hands. There was a smear of dark red on my palm. It was drying, turning a sickly brown. The reality hit me like a physical blow: the security cameras on the street, my fingerprints on that knife, the trail of blood I might have left behind. I was going to jail. Or worse, I’d be hunted.

​There was only one other person. One person who lived in the shadows, who knew how to make things—and people—disappear. A man who was a monster, an assassin, but who had looked at me with those green eyes and made me feel safe.

​With trembling fingers, I found the number Dom Raymond had used this morning. My heart hammered against my teeth as the line rang.

​He picked up on the very first ring.

​