Arranged To The Beast Alpha
Inspiring and unsettling

DAMIAN

"Consummate your marriage?" Kai exclaimed like the loose-mouthed fool he was.

"What were you thinking?" he queried.

I glared at him, scoffing at his response. "Royanna must have brainwashed her or something. After they left, I sniffed magic. I thought it was just Royanna. But when I went after Leah, she had that scent. She's not even in politics yet, and her life has been threatened twice. I am not ready for another loss all in the name of politics," I replied and settled on my desk, the pendant in my hand.

One question kept lingering in my mind, despite everything; How did Leah draw an image of a night only Kai knew of? I never told anyone else.

"We have to make Leah feel loved and welcome before thinking of children. And Leah getting pregnant will result in more of these attacks. They will try to get rid of your heir."

Kai was right, and I never thought of the implication If she falls pregnant, maybe it was a made-up pretense to know how she would feel like beneath me. I gritted my teeth, warding off the thought that I had better things to handle than my desires.

"I will talk with her."

I hesitated at the door, wondering if barging would be better than knocking. Either way, I needed to speak to her, so I placed a gentle knock on the door. "Leah," I called. Rustles and shufflings filled my eyes; it was like someone was scrambling in the room, trying to get rid of something.

My hands moved on impulse; I pushed the door open and froze for a split second, my blood turning cold.

I took fast strides to the window and grabbed her hand and the sheet she was using to climb out.

"Where the hell do you think you are going?" I asked pulling her back into the room. She clumsily landed on her feet, dread filling her gaze.

My grip tightened around her arm, "Where the hell were you going?" I tried to make my voice a lot calmer, but it was impossible.

I was angry, no denial on that path. I released my hold on her, she recoiled, fear glistening in her iris.

"I'm sorry, but I don't want to be a breeder. I'm not ready." Leah's voice was shaky, and the tears brimming in her eyes twisted a knife in my gut.

I wanted to scream at her that I understood that I felt the same way. But the reality of our situation wouldn't let me off the hook so easily.

I needed to find a way to regain my words, maybe even save her from making another desperate escape.

"It won't happen, at least not tonight," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. Relief washed over her features, her shoulders slumping as if a weight had been lifted. She pressed her hands against the wall for support, looking like she might crumble into the floor.

"On one condition," I added, watching as her relief shifted back to fear, her eyes darting to mine. "W-What?"

"Finish recreating the portrait." I locked eyes with her, and I could see the confusion wash over her, mingling with the fear.

I remembered all too well what happened the last time she picked up a brush, and that was exactly what I wanted. I was curious-maybe even desperate to see if she could unleash that power again, or if it was all just a fluke. "It's your choice to make," I concluded, my tone deadpan. There was no room for argument.

Leah scoffed, and for a moment, the silence stretched between us, thick with unspoken tension. "This isn't right. We could just-"

"Make a choice, Leah." My voice cut through her protests like a knife.

"Fine," she sighed, the word heavy with resignation. She stormed over to the shelf, her back rigid and sharp like a blade. I could feel the anger radiating off her, but I didn't care. I had a plan, and it was working.

She grabbed the bag of painting supplies and strode out of the room. I smirked, the corners of my mouth twitching upward.

I followed her, eager to see what would happen next. We entered my gallery.

Leah wasted no time, pulling out her sketchpad and brushes with a determination that was both inspiring and unsettling.

As she began to paint, I stood there, captivated. Every stroke was deliberate, filled with an intensity that made me forget why I'd brought her here in the first place. Time slipped away as I watched her, waiting for the familiar chaos to erupt. But nothing happened. Leah was halfway through the portrait, and I was astonished to see her brow furrowed in confusion. Even she didn't understand why there hadn't been an attack.

"Keep painting," I suggested, my curiosity piqued.

Leah shot me a glare, but she picked up the brush again, her hands moving with a precision that made it hard to tear my gaze away. She painted like a professional, pouring her soul into the canvas as if she were trying to impress an audience. It was mesmerizing, watching her get lost in the flow, and I momentarily forgot the problems we were in.

Soon enough, Leah dropped the paintbrush, cracking her hands in frustration. They were red from the strain, and I could see the exhaustion etched on her face. The portrait was massive; there was no way she could finish it in one go. "That's enough," I said gently, our eyes locking.

Leah sighed and set her paintbrush down, breaking the quiet. I leaned against the wall, watching her pack up with a mix of relief and confusion.

How had she managed to avoid another episode? The tension in the air was thick, but here we were no chaos, no outbursts. Just Leah, looking worn out. "Are you okay?" I asked softly.

She didn't look up, focusing on her paint tubes. "Yeah, just tired." I could hear the tremor in her voice.

"Good. We go again tomorrow." I said it like it was a simple plan, but the moment the words left my mouth, I could see the storm brewing in Leah's eyes.

"No." She shot to her feet, glaring at me like I had just committed a crime. "I know why you did this, and I'm not doing it again. I'm not putting myself at risk." Her voice shook with a mix of anger and something deeper, something I didn't want to confront.

"Watch your tongue, Leah. Do not raise your voice." I tried to keep my tone steady, but I could feel my irritation rising.

She didn't care. Instead, she hurled her paintbrush across the room, the sound of it clattering to the floor almost drowned out by the crash of her half-finished painting hitting the trash. I watched, dumbfounded, as she turned to storm out, but before she could get far, I grabbed her wrist and slammed her against the wall. My blood was boiling.

"What the hell was that?" I demanded, the intensity of the moment settling around us like a heavy fog.

"None of your fucking business!" she yelled, and for a split second, I felt the heat of her anger wash over me. But then I caught the tears gathering in her eyes, and it was like someone had doused the flames of my rage with ice water. I let go of her, slowly, reluctantly, as if releasing a fragile bird back into the wild. She stood there, breathing hard, anger and hurt etched across her features. I hated how I'd pushed her, how I'd driven her to this point.

I watched her go, the sound of the door slamming behind her echoing in the silence that followed.

The adrenaline from our confrontation fizzled out, leaving a hollow pit in my stomach.