Now, Luca was an Alpha.

  He had discipline. Control.

  But then she moved, and all of it went straight to hell.

  Rosie reached for her glass, shifting just enough that the thin strap of her dress slipped an inch lower. His wolf snarled its approval, pushing the feel of his fingers trailing lower, catching the fabric, easing it off completely.

  Heat curled down. Not real. But fuck, it might as well have been.

  Luca's fingers flexed against the table.

  He should look away. Should focus on the conversation, on his drink, on anything but the way her collarbone dipped beneath that useless excuse of a neckline.

  Instead, he stared.

  A flicker of movement caught his eye—Milton. The bastard was watching him, amusement plain in his gaze. Luca had half a second to school his expression before—

  "Well," Ailey began, carefully placing her fork back on her gleaming plate.

  Rosie's gaze snapped up—and landed on him. For a single breath, neither of them moved. Goddess, he hoped his exterior didn't betray him, that the heat crawling up his spine didn't reach his face, that his need wasn't written plainly across his skin.

  Then—she blinked. Looked away.

  His wolf growled. Not loud enough for anyone to hear—but Luca felt it. A low, visceral sound vibrating silently in his chest, an instinctive protest at the loss of her gaze, at the way she dismissed him so easily.

  Luca clenched his jaw, forcing his wolf down as Ailey continued, blissfully unaware.

  "You're not quite at my level of culinary mastery yet," Ailey continued, nodding to Kira, "but I have to admit, it was better than last week, Kira. You're really getting the hang of it."

  Shame his appetite had nothing to do with food.

  Kira let out a snort, her eyes dancing with a mix of humor and relief. "I'd love to take credit for that, but honestly, Rosie swooped in and saved the dinner. It was a complete disaster before she showed up."

  The mention of her name drew Rosie back into the conversation, and far from him. Luca exhaled slowly as she offered a nonchalant shrug, her eyes twinkling. "I've seen worse."

  Kira grinned, a sly smile spreading across her face. "That's the nicest way anyone has ever insulted my cooking," she quipped, her voice a bit too light through the teasing.

  Ailey chuckled softly, rubbing her hand over her round belly with a contented sigh. "You should really take that as a compliment," she advised with a knowing nod.

  "Trust me, I am," Kira replied.

  Luca's gaze flicked to Rosie. She hadn't meant to joke, but there—just at the corner of her mouth—a tiny twitch of a smile. She didn't mind the teasing. As Kira rose from her seat, balancing a plate delicately in her hands, Rosie mirrored her, reaching to take it. "I've got it."

  The Beta female was on the verge of protesting—as if she would let her guest handle the task of clearing the table. But before she could argue, another voice cut in.

  "I'll help."

  He was already on his feet.

  The room's atmosphere shifted subtly as all heads turned towards him, but it was the expression on Rosie's face that truly mattered. Her eyes, wide with surprise but not displeasure, locked onto Luca with a curious warmth.

  Milton suppressed a smirk. Since when are you eager for dishes?

  Luca shot him a sidelong glare—a silent challenge. Say it out loud. I dare you.

  Milton, wisely, kept his mouth shut. Not without a playful glint in the eye.

  And just like that, the moment passed. The rest of the group carried on, stacking dishes, clearing plates, slipping into the living room one by one—a silent agreement to give the two mates some time alone, to let Luca try and win her over, little by little, or at least carve out a moment just for them.

  Luca positioned himself beside the sink, the cool ceramic pressing into his hip as Rosie took up the cloth, her hands moving quietly. The gentle splash of water, the rhythmic clink of dishes—it was the only sound between them.

  And yet, the silence wasn't empty. He kept glancing at her, couldn't help it. There was so much he wanted to know, so much he longed to confess. Yet every thought seemed to carry the risk of pushing her further away.

  So he said nothing. If she noticed his staring, she didn't acknowledge it. She simply worked.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Rosie stood there, her black hair cascading like a silken waterfall. It wasn't just long—it brushed the curve of her lower back, teasing. Taunting. Every time she moved, that hair swayed, and his fingers twitched, itching to wrap around it.

  Her hands moved with a rhythm, remaining soap bubbles clinging to her skin as she dried a cup, like they didn't want to let go.

  And fuck—he couldn't blame them. He wanted to be those bubbles—

  The water ran red.

  For a single, horrifying second, his mind blanked. Blood. Her blood. Then—small fingers closed around his wrist.

  "Oh," she murmured, guiding his hand under the stream. Cool water, steady pressure. Not her blood. His.

  Looking down, he realized he had cut himself.

  Washing a goddamn knife.

  Blood trickled down his knuckles, slow and bright against his skin. The cut was deep, slicing through his left palm. He barely felt it. What he did feel was her touch—gentle, but firm around his wrist, water cascading over their joined hands. Hers were smaller than his, delicate, but her grip? Unyielding.

  Oh, Goddess. When was the last time he had accidentally injured himself? That was embarrassing—how easily she distracted him. His wolf should have been bristling, flanking its pride, bumping its chest at the mishap. But no—

  He was purring.

  At the feel of her on him. Where she touched his wrist, tingles erupted, sharp and consuming. He barely registered the sting of the cut, too caught up in the quiet, insistent pleasure of her hands on his skin. He didn't care what had caused it. He only cared that she was tending to him.

  "Don't move," she murmured, pressing his wrist under the cool stream of water. The words were calm, but they carried no room for argument. An Alpha might have bristled at the command, but Luca? His lips curled instead.

  She had no idea what it did to him—hearing his mate tell him what to do, like it was her right. Maybe it was.

  And then, just as quickly as she had come, she was gone, taking the warmth with her. He almost protested—but before he could, she was back at his side, holding a small bag. Rosie explained, "I spotted it earlier when we were cooking."

  He still didn't know what was inside. Didn't care.

  Because she was touching him again.

  She shut off the tap, sliding one hand under his to steady it, pressing a cloth against the wound with her other. He could not get over how soothing the stroke of her skin on his was as she guided him to the isle counter. She gestured for him to sit at the island counter, and he obeyed, watching as she took a stool beside him.

  "It will sting a bit," she murmured, opening the bag and pulling out a small vial of disinfectant.

  Disinfectant.

  He almost laughed. He hadn't properly cared for an injury since he was a child. The thing would heal itself, one way or another. He had no time—or no one—to tend to it. A real man endured pain.

  But maybe he had just been waiting for her to care for him. That, he could live by.

  The moment the soaked cloth touched his skin, the sting flared—sharp, electric. But all he felt was her, and that was far more dangerous.

  "I'll put some threads in to help the skin heal faster." She let her finger trail the cut, before she added, "I don't think it'll leave a mark."

  He wished she would.

  "I fear I've ruined your dinner with all this talk of rogues." Her voice pierced the quiet, laced with guilt as she took out a needle. She lowered herself, steady hands working, the sting of the thread pulling through his skin barely registering—

  Why had nobody warned him how fucking ethereal it was to be stitched up by his mate?

  Goddess. She was hovering over him, strands of hair brushing his arm, the warmth of her breath teasing his hand. Her fingers pressed against his palm—soft, sure—skimming over the rough callouses, igniting something in him that had nothing to do with pain.

  "You didn't," he assured her. Or tried to. His voice came out tight, raw—nothing like the steady confidence he intended. She risked a glance up—a mistake.

  Her eyes—deep forest green, wild and untamed—caught the light just enough to glint like something dark and dangerous. They weren't just eyes. They were a goddamn invitation to get lost in the woods and never come back.

  Half in shadow. Half in heat.

  Something flickered across her face—uncertainty, hesitation. Then, almost too quickly, she dropped her gaze. Like she'd realized what she'd done, what she'd ignited in him. Like she was trying to smother the spark before it could catch, before it could spread.

  As if that would erase the tension coiling lower in him. Fuck. That was way too sensual—his flesh was being stitched, for Goddess' sake. But still, it took everything in him to choke down the growl caught in his throat.

  Only partially did he succeed. His wolf rumbled, low, territorial. It wanted more. Wanted her. It wanted to claim the fingers tracing his skin, the mouth chewing her lips raw, the scent of sage and rosemary wrapping around him like a second skin, filling his lungs until nothing else existed.

  Luca coughed, masking the sound. A feeble attempt at control.

  She snapped her head up, lips parting—before quickly recovering. Not fast enough. The sound had unsettled her, vibrated through her, reached her blood and burrowed deep.

  A soft blush crept up her neck.

  Luca fought the urge to smirk. Goddess, he loved this. Loved when he managed to pull a reaction from her, when she let something slip before she could rein it back in, when her body betrayed her restraint.

  His wolf preened.

  "I'm sorry it hurts," she murmured, eyes flicking back to his hand. "I'm almost finished."

  If only she knew. If only she realized how her touch burned through him—how the simple brush of her fingers against his skin did more damage than any blade ever could.

  He should get injured more often.

  Next time—the chest. Let her press her hands against his ribs, fingers steady as she stitches him up. Let her breath warm his skin. Let her stand between his thighs, hips skimming past with every movement.

  And maybe, just maybe, he'd groan a little. Just to see what she'd do.

  "Done."

  Flush tainted her cheeks, her lips pink and slightly swollen from the persistent chewing that had accompanied her concentration.

  His gaze dipped lower, tracking every tiny betrayal of her body. The press of her thighs. The catch in her breath. The way her pulse thrummed, fast and unsteady, just beneath that fragile skin.

  All because of him. His wolf rumbled, low and deep—silent, this time. Luca smothered it before it could escape. Because this wasn't just the wolf.

  This was him. Wanting her. Watching her. Craving the way her breath stalled when he leaned too close, the way her fingers trembled just slightly as she finished the last stitch.

  The wolf wanted to claim her. Luca? He wanted to watch her fall apart. To strip away that careful restraint, to tease, to test—to unravel her piece by piece until she had no choice but to gasp his name. He wanted her breathless. Mindless. Wrecked.

  And from the way her pulse hammered beneath fragile skin, from the way she swallowed just a second too late—

  She wanted it, too. Even if she wasn't ready to admit it.

  That was fine. He'd take his time.

  After all—she'd be his in the end.

  Briar wanted a game?

  Let's play.

  This scene was stuck in my head for days, and let me tell you, the result did not disappoint.

  Do you like the title? It was that, or Blessed Be the Cut ?? (you know, because he nearly climaxed while she stitched him up).

  Now, brace yourself, because we're diving back into Rosie's POV.

  Don't worry—

  Luca will play.