Royal Alpha Roar.
I shouldn’t have seen her like that.
It shouldn’t have happened. Moons, it shouldn’t!
The moment my hand grabbed her dress to stop her, I hadn’t anticipated—hadn’t wanted—what followed. The torn fabric gave way, exposing what should have remained hidden. And what I saw? A canvas of alabaster skin, soft as butter and pale as the first snowfall. My mind scrambles to describe it, to categorize it, but nothing I summon feels sufficient.
I wouldn’t have imagined it—couldn’t have, not even in the darkest corners of my thoughts. I don’t want to revel in what I’ve seen, but her pastel-pink bra barely restrained the soft, perfectly shaped swell others would label as breasts. Yet in this moment, even that word feels reductive. They weren’t just parts of her anatomy—they were.
