The Feral Alpha's Captive-Chapter 92: Fever

🦋 ALTHEA

​The fever had teeth.

​My head throbbed and my back ached, but I wished that were the worst part of my body revolting against my will. But like everything else in my life, it could always be worse—and right now, it was.

​My core ebbed like it had its own heart, walls clenching rhythmically around nothing. It forced my pulse into a sprint that exhausted me before I even rose from bed. Like I had dreaded—and in a way, anticipated—my heat had come. It hit like a fucking club to the noggin.

​If food wasn’t already unpalatable, now it just twisted my guts. The light from the windows had grown far too bright; the room swam before my eyes as if I’d downed a bottle of liquor.

​The door remained locked, though my stomach turned with guilt every time Thal came by. I turned him away—every time. Through the haze of my wanton need, I could hear his voice shatter at the rejection, but there was nothing I could do against the gnawing, festering hunger for a man I should not have wanted.

​When I had barged into that meeting, speaking of war against the Allied Packs and not holding back, I had been drunk on adrenaline. I was starving for control over a world that had no regard for my thoughts.

​Now? Now I couldn’t even control my own traitorous body.

​Three days. I’d spent three days locked in this room—burning, aching, wanting. Three days of Thal’s worried voice through the wood, and three days of untouched food going cold on trays I couldn’t bring myself to accept. I was pretending I could survive this alone.

​A knock at the door made me flinch.

​It wasn’t Thal’s hesitant tap. This was heavier. Authoritative.

​"Althea."

​Thorne’s voice.

​My entire body went rigid, the bond flaring so bright beneath my skin that I gasped. Every nerve ending screamed at me to open the door, to let him in, to—

​"Go away," I managed, my voice hoarse from disuse.

​"No."

​The single word was as flat as it was final.

​I heard the lock click. Of course, he had a master key. I rolled my eyes and instantly regretted it as the pounding in my skull worsened.

​"Wait—" I started, but the door swung open before I could finish.

​Thorne filled the doorway, and the scent of him hit me like a physical blow. Cedar, storm, and earth, underscored by something darker and muskier—sweat, exertion, and male. It wrapped around me and invaded my lungs, making the heat coil tighter in my belly until I couldn’t breathe.

​I scrambled back against the headboard, pulling the thin blanket up as if it could somehow shield me.

​"You can’t just—" I started, but my voice cracked.

​"Three days," he said, his voice low and rough with frustration and a disarming edge of concern. "You haven’t eaten in three days."

​"I’m fine."

​"You’re not fine." He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a decisive click. In his hands was a tray—bread, meat, and something that might have been soup.

​"I said I’m fine," I repeated, even as my stomach twisted with hunger. The real kind, not the burning need that had consumed everything else.

​He set the tray down on the small table by the window and turned to face me. That’s when I saw him properly.

​He looked—wrong. No, not wrong. Exhausted.

​His bronze arms—those massive, corded arms—were streaked with dirt and what looked like dried blood. Bruises mottled his forearms, dark purple against tan skin. His hair was disheveled, falling into his eyes, and the shadows beneath them spoke of sleepless nights. He looked like he’d been fighting. Or training. Or—

​Something was definitely wrong.

​"What happened to you?" I asked, momentarily forgetting my own misery.

​His jaw tightened. "Nothing."

​"You’re covered in—"

​"It’s nothing," he repeated, his tone brooking no argument. He picked up the bowl of soup and moved toward the bed. "Eat."

​I stared at him. "I’m not hungry."

​"You haven’t eaten in three days. You’re hungry."

​"I’m fine going without," I said, the words coming out more defensive than I intended. "I’m used to it."

​Something flickered across his face, almost too fast for me to catch in my heat-addled state, but I felt it in the bond. A sharp, cold spike of something that might have been anger. Or pain.

​"Used to it," he repeated, his voice dangerously soft.

​Why can’t you just be mean? You make this so much harder, I lamented in my mind.

​I looked away. "Yes."

​Silence stretched between us, heavy as a soaked shroud. Then he moved closer, lowering himself to the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight. Suddenly he was right there, near enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him, near enough to count the flecks of gold in his amber eyes.

​"Open," he said, holding a spoonful of soup to my lips.

​I blinked. "What?"

​"Open your mouth, Althea."

​"I can feed myself."

​"Can you?" His gaze dragged over me—the trembling in my hands, the way I was barely holding myself upright. "Prove it."

​Heat flooded my cheeks. "I don’t need—"

​"Open."

​The command in his voice made something low in my belly clench. I hated it. I despised how my body responded to his presence, how the bond sang with approval. But I was so tired, and I was so hungry. And he was right there—steady, solid, and refusing to leave.

​I parted my lips.

​The soup was warm and savory, and the moment it touched my tongue, I realized just how starved I actually was. I swallowed, and he was already bringing another spoonful to my mouth.

​"Good girl," he murmured, and the praise made me shiver.

​We fell into a rhythm—him feeding me, me accepting each bite with growing resignation. The soup was followed by bread, then small pieces of meat. I tried not to notice how close he was or the way his scent was making my head spin, intensifying the ache between my thighs.

​But then—without thinking—I leaned forward slightly, breathing him in.

​"You smell better than the food," I mumbled, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

​His hand froze halfway to my mouth.

​I realized what I’d said and jerked back, mortification burning through the fever. "I didn’t mean—"

​"Don’t," he said, his voice strained. "Don’t apologize."

​But my traitorous body wasn’t done betraying me. My hand reached out, almost of its own accord, fingers brushing against his forearm. He was hard—not just his cock, though I could see the evidence of that straining against his pants now—but his entire body. Every muscle was coiled tight, locked, like he was holding himself back from something violent.

​"Althea." My name came out rough, almost guttural. "You need to stop touching me."

​I should have pulled back. I should have listened. Instead, my fingers traced up his arm, fascinated by the tension thrumming beneath his skin.

​"Why?" I breathed.

​His other hand shot out, catching my wrist in a grip that was firm but careful. His eyes—molten gold now, barely human—locked onto mine.

​"Because," he said, his voice dropping to a husky growl that made my core clench, "my restraint is going to shatter if you keep touching me."

​The words hung in the air between us. I looked down, following his gaze, and saw it—the unmistakable bulge pressed against his pants. My pheromones were affecting him.

​"I—" I started, but I didn’t know how to finish.

​His thumb stroked over the inside of my wrist, right where my pulse hammered wildly. "Three days," he said again, softer this time. "You’ve been locked in here for three days, burning, and you didn’t call for me."

​"I didn’t want to—"

​"To what? Burden me?" His laugh was bitter. "Althea, I can feel you through the bond. Every spike of pain, every wave of heat. You think I’ve been sleeping?"

​That explained the shadows under his eyes, but I had an inkling he wasn’t telling the whole truth. Through the bond, I felt the tempest of his soul. It threatened to suck me in if I came too close, yet it tempted me all the same.

​"I’ve been going mad," he continued, his grip on my wrist tightening fractionally. He noticed my expression—whatever face I was making—and he leaned in.

​A breathy gasp escaped me. His gaze dropped to my lips, the flecks in his eyes lighting up like blown cinders. A wicked, teasing smirk curled his mouth. My heart crashed against my ribs, lust raging in my veins like a bull.

​"I would like to take you up on your offer," he muttered, his voice rugged, tipping into ravenous.

​Confusion whirled through me. "What offer?" By some miracle, my voice did not quake like my pulsing center.

​"The kiss," he whispered. "Not a peck, Thea."

​My heart stilled, liquid fire filling my veins.

​"I want tongue," he said.

​My breath caught as he threw my own words back at me.