against her ear, this one leaving even less room for debate. Goosebumps rose up along her arms in some animalistic response. "Let go."
"I don't want this," she managed to stammer, even as she did nothing to free herself from his embrace.
"Yes, you do."
To prove his point, the alpha dipped a hand under her dress between her legs, his fingers slowly and deliberately dragging up her thighs through the river of slick that coated them. Jocelyn convulsed involuntarily, trembling in anticipation of the moment when his explorations reached the crux of her legs.
But he stopped inches away, making Jocelyn mewl in frustration. She tried to wiggle closer to his fingertips, but he held her firmly in place with one arm while he brought his slick-drenched fingers inches from her face, forcing her to witness the glistening proof of her arousal.
She squeezed her eyes shut, but the image was etched on her brain.
A small, foreign sound escaped her throat. Was it a cry for help? A moan of desire? At this point, Jocelyn really had no idea.
The alpha hoisted her higher in his arms, blessedly lifting her backside above the swell of his cock. He held her in an embrace that might have been almost chaste, his cheek pressed against hers, rough stubble mixed with the scent of aged oak and whiskey—if not for the words he repeated.
"Yes. You do."
Jocelyn shook her head emphatically. "That's just my body. It's not me."
He gave a rough laugh. "You think there's a difference?"
"Of course there is." She wasn't an animal, no matter what he wanted her to think. And neither was he, despite the way he was behaving. Alphas were human. They had souls. They could rise above their urges and instincts, just like anyone else.
Except…Jocelyn could no sooner regain her will in this moment than she could fly. And he knew it.
"You're wrong."
Anger sputtered to life, cutting through the morass of fear and dread. "I'm not like you," she spat. "I'm not just some—some rutting beast. I'm a thinking, intelligent woman."
The alpha's next growl had a dangerous edge, making Jocelyn fear she'd gone too far.
But what else was she supposed to do? Reason hadn't worked. Neither had begging. And something terrifying was happening inside her, something she couldn't stop. It was as if she was being split into two halves—one primal and one civilized.
And there was no doubt which was in control.
"You're an omega now," the alpha said, taking a single huge stride, and, just like that, she found herself on her back in his bed looking up at him. "That means you're mine, and I'm going to prove it to you."
Jocelyn cowered in the same nest of soft blankets and pillows in which she'd been blissfully resting only moments ago. The alpha hadn't hurt her. He hadn't forced her to do anything. But the look on his face was both predatory and possessive—and it made her body thrum with exquisite energy. Yes, it was telegraphing—yes, yes, YES.
The alarm in her brain was muffled, as though its battery needed changing. She was in exactly the same spot as when she first woke up: a strange alpha was staring down at her, not touching her, not hurting her. But somehow everything had changed.
Jocelyn gazed into his eyes, noticing the flecks of pale shimmering silver in the coal-colored irises. She had never seen eyes like that. They didn't seem capable of humor, but there was nothing funny about this moment. They promised no mercy, no compromise, no forgiveness—they promised something she didn't fully understand. But for some reason, she felt her emotions shift. Her fear morphed into something else, something dark and needful and unfamiliar.
Jocelyn wouldn't have been surprised if her body had begun to move independently of her mind, but she managed to remain still and rigid, eyeing the door. She would give anything not to have to face this moment, to go back and change all she'd done in the last twenty-four hours.
"Please," she tried one last time. "I just want to go home."
The alpha's expression didn't change. Instead, he pulled his shirt up and over his head, exposing a broad, muscular chest covered in black hair and faint scars. He tossed the shirt in the corner but made no further move toward her.
"You are home."
"No," she gasped, but her hands involuntarily clenched the soft, downy covers, and to her mortification, her hips lifted off the bed, straining for his touch. "My real home."
"Your real home," he echoed with a dismissive snort. "Is that