The Alpha's Territory

Chapter 4: Keeping the Secret

Emily's perspective:

“Welcome our guests," Grant insists.

A trickle of polite, though honestly lackluster greetings follow: “Welcome." “Nice to meet you." “Glad you're with us."

Grant's hands rest atop the chair back that rises to his defined chest. He white-knuckles the wooden frame until I hear a light snapping sound. Grant does not look pleased. But, almost like flipping a light switch, the stern glare he is giving each member around the table in turn is replaced with, what I think is, a sincere smile.

“I apologize. This is a rather abrupt meeting that I know we were not prepared for." Grant pauses and I can see him grind his jaw. He is doing his utmost to hold back a wrath that I know all too well Alphas are capable of. “I will have to give proper introductions at a later time. Now is not that time."

My G*d the tension in the air is uncomfortably thick. I run my finger around my turtleneck collar. I feel like I'm about to break into a sweat. I gulp down a lump in my throat.

Trouble is the last thing a pack of rogues wants. I get it. They've had enough trouble in their lives. But I don't mean to cause any trouble. I wish there was some way that I could convince them that I mean no harm. I wish I could show them that I am, honestly, just as much a rogue as they are.

“I'm going to show our guests to their room." Everyone nods in confirmation. “Tulsa. Vegas. After everything is cleaned up, get a couple of plates together and take them upstairs. You know the room."

“Yes, sir," they reply in unison.

“Austin."

“Yes."

“You and Diego make sure the side-by-side is cleaned. Then clean and lock away the jet suits."

“Yes, sir," Austin says. He and another young man about the same size and build reluctantly exit.

“Young ladies," Grant says, turning to us. “Follow me."

On the other side of the kitchen and dining area is a walnut staircase with rails that are inlaid with gold. The gold inlay beautifully twists about the railing like creeping ivy. But as my hand glides up the rail, I can see that the gold is not just decoration. The images etched into the gold seem to tell a story. It is not one of the great myths of our kind. It is a story I've not heard before. From the quick overview I am getting of it with each ascending step, the story is about a pup overcoming a tyrannical Alpha. I wonder where this story comes from. I think…

Grant speaks, interrupting my train of thought. “Welcome to the living quarters. Everyone lives in suites on this floor, except me and Bram. We each have our own wing. Mine is in the center of the house. Bram's is on the south side. But don't worry. I think you'll find your quarters more than suitable."

The hallway reminds me more of a luxury hotel than a house. No. hotels aren't nearly this nice. The hall has to be two hundred feet long. There are doors on each side, probably spaced more than ten yards apart.

“The end of the hall," says Grant. “That's where you'll be staying."

At the far end of the hall is a great wooden door, the same color as the stairwell, with an elaborate carving worked into it that I can't yet make out.

Gabby walks ahead of me and Grant. She seems irritated. She's pouting and she wants me to know it.

“Whatever," I say under my breath.

Grant grabs my hand and stops me. It takes everything in me to pull away and keep walking. I hear Grant give a low growl as I do. My eyes shift to him, doing my best to give a silent admonition. He doesn't seem to understand. I mouth, “Not now." He looks at Gabby, then back to me and returns a mouthed, “Okay."

Gabby is already standing at the door waiting. About twenty feet from the door, Grant questions her. “Gabby, can you catch?"

“What?"

“Here." He lobs the key to the room in the air. “Go in."

Gabby snatches the key from midair, slips it into the lock, then click—the door opens and she rushes inside, not bothering to see if I follow.

Grant stops and turns to me. “We need to talk."

“About what?" I play innocent.

“I think you know."

“Really, I don't."

Grant closes his eyes and tenses up his bearded jaw. He exhales a hard breath and begins to speak, but holds back.

Thoughts bounce through my mind that I hope will, somehow, fight against the draw. “Please," I think to myself, “don't say it. When it finally comes out, when we both know, when we both have admitted the truth, we won't be able to hold back. Don't say it."

Gritting his teeth like he had done with the pack downstairs, Grant forces a smile. “Let me show you around the room." He opens his eyes and extends a hand, inviting me to lead the way.

I walk through the door and, immediately, I'm stunned. My jaw literally drops at the suite's eloquence, beauty, and utter grandness. Grant said our room wouldn't disappoint and he wasn't lying. This place continues to impress.

From top to bottom, the room is decorated in what I think is called Baroque architecture. The ceilings have to be at least fourteen feet high and are mostly taupe, accented with four white, sprawling woodcuts that protrude in a twisting triangular pattern, shaped like rose bushes that sort of point to the center of the ceiling. At the center, the ceiling rises a few feet higher into a sky-blue dome that has a bunch of naked angelic beings floating around. From the middle of the dome is a golden chandelier. They are made up of a similar pattern—mostly taupe with white, vine-shaped trim making rectangular boxes that look like mirror frames without mirrors. The floor is a shimmering white with creamy brown lines that outline an all-encompassing rose bush.

Grant steps in behind me and runs two warm hands around my ribs and gently claps them together under my breasts. I exhale the tension in my bones and rotate my head back against his defined pecs.

From the left of the suite, Gabby's voice echoes, “Damn!" I hear her footsteps slapping against the floor as she re-enters the living room. Just in time, I pull away from Grant.

Genuinely concerned about my opinion, Grant asks, “Nice?"

Back still to him, I reply with a simple, “Yes."

“Good…Good…" his voice trails off.

“What is this place?" Gabby asks.

“The style is Baroque. I don't know if you've heard of it."

“Whatever it is, I think it's pretty f*ckin' sweet."

My eyes jerk toward Gabby.

“What? It is," Gabby says rolling her eyes, then turns back into the room. “Dibs! I call dibs on this one!"

Grant brushes past me, his hand gliding across the small of my back, sending a quiver up my spine. “Let me show you your room."

We head toward a door on the right. “The suite is made up of a grand living area and two bedrooms with their own full bathroom." Grant reaches out and grabs a golden knob that is in the center of a sky-blue door with golden trim. “This is your room."

The door swings open. Grant positions himself beside the door and motions for me to go in. I shake my head and take a few paces back.

“What's wrong?" Not yet fully understanding my dilemma, Grant continues with a promise. “For now, it's between us."

“It's not that. It's more complicated."

“Then, what? Vin?"

“I-I-I. I can't—"

knock-knock-knock

“I'll get the door," I say and hurry back through the living room, so thankful that I have an excuse to stop our conversation.

I open the door, not sure what to expect. An older lady is holding out a sectioned, wooden tray on which rest a couple of juicy ribeyes in the center, watermelon and grapes on the left, and a slab of butter melting alongside a pile of mashed potatoes on the right.

Dinner. I had forgotten Grant ordered a couple of his pack to bring us dinner.

“I'll put this on the coffee table, my dear," the grey-headed woman, who must be in her fifties, says with a politeness I am not used to.

“Vegas. Thank you." Grant's deep-toned voice resounds.

“Thanks," I say and let her pass by. Behind her comes in the older man—Tulsa, I think. Startled, I jump back. I didn't know he was there.

“Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you," he apologizes, his pearly teeth shining past a grey, Tom Selleck mustache. Come to think of it, he could be a Tom Selleck impersonator.

The lady sits the tray down. Behind her, the man places wrapped dinnerware on the table, along with two glasses and an ice bucket, in which rests a bottle of red wine.

“Tulsa. Is that the Bordeaux?" Grant asks.

“Lafite Rothschild."

“Excellent."

The couple doesn't say anything else on their way back out the door. The older man gives a smile and wave, then pulls the door shut.

Torn between what I want and what I have to do, I keep myself from looking directly at Grant. “You have to go."

He retorts with a mix of passionate lust and tenderness, finally speaking the truth that we both know should remain silent, hidden. “You can't fight fate, my sweet Yuki."

“Yuki? What's that mean?"

“Snow flower. Happiness. This is what you are to me."

I blush at the cheesy, sweet words coming from the masculine lips of the mate I have been fated to. His mixture of fun, serious, sexy, eloquence, humor, and passion is perfect.

There is a silence between us that allows me a moment to pull myself back to the reality that I can't be pulled in, that I have to fight this fated love, that I can't stay. I know Grant's right. But I have to stick to the plan, no matter what fate has designed. “It can't be."

“Why?"

“What's that smell?" Gabby's voice chimes through the open door. She comes back into the living room. “Yes! Food!"

“I'll let you two eat."

Grant walks to the front door, opens it, passes through, and, before shutting it, turns to me. “Can I speak with you?"

Hesitantly, I step to the door.

“I know you just got here, so I'll let you get settled. We will have this conversion. I want to be honest with each other," he says, keeping his voice low. “I want you to know you can trust me."

Afraid that if I open my mouth I will tell him the whole truth, I keep my lips sealed and push the door shut.