Against Devil

14 - A friend

The rain had finally slowed to a sulking drizzle, like nature had run out of tears—or maybe just lost interest in our bloody soap opera.

I was elbow-deep in the corpse graveyard we'd been clearing out since yesterday, trying not to gag as we rolled another body into a tarp, when Alex strolled up like a damn gothic storm cloud in boots. He didn't say a word at first—just scanned the site, jaw clenched, arms crossed, rain beading off his jacket like it had better places to be.

He was trying to make it seem like he didn't know where all this came from, which made me want to scream—or at least remind him about the fucking medieval butter knife he keeps hidden in the closet like it's a quirky family heirloom and not a red flag.

And I had my suspicions about him. I always had. But lately... they were harder to ignore. He knew too much, moved too quietly, and showed up exactly when things were about to go sideways.

"Charming, isn't it?" I muttered, yanking the tarp's edge tighter. "Really pulls the whole 'forest getaway' vibe together."

He didn't smile. He almost never did. But his eyes flicked to me—sharp, unreadable. That signature Beta Alexander presence—still, silent, and suffocating with control. The kind of man who could order a war without raising his voice.

"Double perimeter starting tonight. You and Marcus are on opposite sweeps. I'll command the eastern flank until reinforcements arrive."

He spoke like his words were etched into stone. Seductive in that cold, tyrannical way that made people listen—then want to slap him for it.

"Okay," I said with a mock salute. "Anything else while you're here? Want me to alphabetize the corpses or maybe embroider little name tags?"

That got me a look. The kind of look that could sandblast granite.

"You're bleeding again," he said flatly.

I reached up and touched my ear. Yep. Still crusty. I'd slept on a towel the whole night like some period-drama invalid, and Victor had given me ear drops that smelled suspiciously like eucalyptus and regret.

"Whatever," I said, smearing it on my pants like war paint. "Still alive. Still kicking. Still full of inappropriate commentary."

Marcus gave a tired snort from nearby. "And to think people wonder why you're single."

"Rude," I hissed. "I'm just emotionally selective."

"Yeah, yeah," Marcus rolled his eyes at me.

I gave him a long, dramatic once-over. "No wonder you're single. Supreme Overlord of Repressed Feelings."

Marcus walked off, muttering something about emotional hazards, vodka, and hunting—probably in that order.

He was... picky. Painfully picky.

Have I ever actually seen him with someone? Nope. Not once. You'd think a guy who walks around like a brooding novel cover model would at least have a tragic ex or two in his history—but no. Nothing. It's like he's holding out for some mythically perfect, demure goddess who speaks in poetry and blushes at compliments.

Honestly, Marcus radiated all words, no action energy. The kind of man who could smolder from across a battlefield but couldn't ignite a spark in a woman's heart if his life depended on it.

Sometimes I genuinely wondered if he ever had someone—maybe once, long ago. But more likely, he's just too proud to admit what he wants and too particular to do anything about it. Not that I'd ever say that to his face. I have a strong preference for keeping my lungs unpunched.