Alpha Daddy, Please Don't Stop novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: Cedar and Gunpowder
I thought meeting my mother's Alpha was going to be a formality.
An awkward dinner, a handshake, a fake smile, and back to Chihuahua on Monday.
I got off the bus in Creel with a suitcase, my last semester of ceramics in my backpack, and thirteen years of resentment.
My father died when I was nine.
An Alpha killed him over a pack debt, in front of my mother, in the kitchen of our house.
Since then, I didn't trust any of them.
My mother was waiting for me at the station, in her white blouse and the silver pendant around her neck.
"Honey."
"Mom."
She hugged me so hard my back cracked.
"You're too skinny."
"I look the same as I did a month ago."
"Well then you're just as skinny."
We both laughed, and something loosened in my chest.
The High House sat at the top of a hill, among pines and red rocks, twenty minutes from town.
A huge wooden house, with terraces, stone fireplaces, and an iron gate.
It smelled of wood smoke and wet earth.
My mother took my arm at the door.
"I'm going to introduce you to Ciro. He's serious. He's quiet. But you'll like him."
"Mom, I'm not going to like him. He's an Alpha."
"Tamara."
"Sorry."
We crossed the foyer.
And then I smelled him.
Cedar, gunpowder, and cigar.
It hit my nose like a wave of heat, and it traveled through my whole body down to my toes.
I stopped hearing my mother. I stopped seeing the ceiling beams.
Something that had been asleep inside me for twenty-two years stretched, yawned, and opened one eye.
"Honey, are you feeling okay?"
"Yes," I lied.
A man came out of the living room.
He was almost six and a half feet tall, with shoulders as broad as a bear's, black hair with gray at the temples, and a full beard.
He had a scar that ran down his jaw.
And smoke-gray eyes that pinned me to the wall.
"Ciro Valenzuela," he said, and held out his hand.
I had to look at it for a second before I realized I should take it.
It was warm and rough, and it enveloped my whole hand.
When we let go, my skin was still burning.
"Mr. Valenzuela," I managed to say.
"Tamara."
He said my name like someone testing a strong drink.
His nostrils flared.
I saw the muscles in his neck tense.
The knuckles of his other hand went white against the doorframe.
My mother smiled, noticing nothing.
"Come into the dining room, the soup is getting cold."
Dinner was at a long table of dark wood, with eight chairs and a fireplace at the far end.
My mother sat at one end, where the plates were served.
Ciro, at the head.
I sat at his right, an elbow's length from his arm.
A blond man with a courteous smile occupied the chair across from me.
He was Orlando Zuniga, the Beta, who greeted me with a handshake that lasted too long.
We ate beef broth and flour tortillas.
My mother talked about the wedding, the flowers, the dress, how well they got along with the pack.
I nodded and didn't take a single bite.
Ciro barely spoke.
He looked at me once a minute, out of the corner of his eye, and looked away as if it burned him.
Twenty minutes into dinner, something touched my knee under the table.
I jumped in my chair.
"What's wrong, honey?" my mother asked.
"Nothing. A cramp."
It was a hand.
A big, warm hand that settled on my knee without moving.
I stared straight ahead, my spoon halfway to my mouth.
Ciro was talking to Orlando about some northern pastures.
His face hadn't moved a millimeter.
The hand moved up.
Slowly. Very slowly.
It moved up the inside of my thigh, over the fabric of my dress.
His fingers stopped an inch from my underwear.
I stopped breathing.
My mother was serving more tortillas and commenting that the mountains weren't as cold as last year.
Ciro's fingers drew a slow circle on my skin.
I gripped the edge of the table with my free hand.
Then he leaned toward me, pretending to reach for the salt, and his voice reached my ear, deep and dry.
"Be a good girl, Tamara."
A shiver ran down my spine.
"And don't let mommy hear you scream."
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