The Alpha's Exiled Mate Chapter 85

Freya’s POV

Before I could respond, he leaned forward suddenly, his lips finding mine. The kiss was clumsy but intense, tasting of expensive whiskey and something uniquely him. His hand moved to cup my face, his touch surprisingly gentle despite his harsh words moments before. When he pulled away, his eyes were clouded with a mixture of desire and confusion.

"Don't leave me..." he whispered, so softly I barely caught the words.

I stared at him, my heart hammering against my ribs. "You're drunk, Alpha Thorne."

A rueful smile crossed his face. "I am, aren't I?" He fell back against the pillows with a groan. "Drunk and my head is killing me."

The accusation from before still stung, resurrecting old wounds I thought had long scarred over. Yes, once I had dreamed of being his mate—before the exile, before he had sentenced me to three years of hell in the Wastes. Before he had shown me exactly what I meant to him: nothing.

I didn't respond further, my expression carefully blank, my inner wolf retreating deep within me. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing me hurt again.

"Nothing to say now?" he challenged, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "The silver has finally silenced the golden-eyed Riley girl?"

"What would you like me to say, Alpha?" I asked, my voice steady despite the storm inside. "That I've learned my lesson? That I know my place now?"

Something flickered across his face—regret, perhaps, or just drunken confusion. He sank back against the pillows, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"My head is pounding," he muttered. "Press your fingers against my temples. It helps."

"I should fetch Martha—"

"No," he cut me off. "You do it. Consider it part of your duties."

I hesitated, knowing this was dangerous territory. But refusing a direct order from an Alpha, especially one as volatile as an intoxicated Thorne Grey, wasn't an option.

Cautiously, I perched on the edge of the bed and placed my fingertips against his temples. I kept my touch clinical, focusing on applying gentle pressure rather than on the warmth of his skin or the way his eyelashes cast shadows across his cheekbones.

"Circular motions," he instructed, his eyes closed.

I obeyed, moving my fingers in small circles. His breathing gradually slowed, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

"Stone asked about you tonight," he said suddenly, his voice low.

My fingers faltered. "What?"

"Jasper Stone. At the club. He described you. Said you belonged in his territory."

I resumed the massage, careful to keep my reaction neutral despite my racing heart. "I belong nowhere, Alpha Thorne. I'm an exile who's completed her sentence."

Thorne's eyes opened, capturing mine with unexpected clarity. "He wants to take you away. To Silverstone Pack."

"I've never met Alpha Stone," I said carefully.

"But you've spoken to him. Designed for him." It wasn't a question.

I didn't deny it. "The design competition was an opportunity."

"An opportunity to leave," he finished, his expression hardening. "To escape Grey territory."

"To rebuild my life," I corrected softly. "Isn't that what completing exile is supposed to mean? A second chance?"

He didn't answer, his eyes drifting closed again. After a few minutes, his breathing deepened, and I realized he had fallen asleep. I gently removed my hands and stood, intending to slip away quietly.

As I reached the edge of the bed, his hand shot out, grabbing my wrist with surprising strength. "Stay," he mumbled, already half-asleep.

"Alpha, I should return to my room—"

"I won't do anything," he interrupted, his voice thick with approaching sleep. "Just sleep. Be quiet. Don't challenge an Alpha's patience."

His grip was like iron, impossible to break without causing a scene. I stood awkwardly beside the bed, unsure what to do, until he tugged sharply, pulling me off balance. I tumbled onto the mattress beside him, careful to keep myself above the covers while he lay beneath them.

I lay stiffly at the edge of the massive bed, as far from him as possible without falling off, listening to his breathing even out into the rhythm of deep sleep. I told myself I would wait until he was fully unconscious, then slip away unnoticed.

But the warmth of the room, the softness of the mattress, and my own exhaustion conspired against me. Despite my best intentions, sleep claimed me before I could make my escape.

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Thorne's POV

Consciousness returned slowly, each heartbeat pulsing painfully behind my eyes. The familiar sensation of a whiskey hangover greeted me like an unwelcome guest. I kept my eyes closed, trying to piece together the previous night through fragmented memories—Stone's provocation at the club, Ryder matching me drink for drink, Sebastian's disapproval.

Something warm pressed against my side. I tensed, suddenly aware I wasn't alone in my bed. The scent registered a moment later—wildflowers and something uniquely familiar. My eyes snapped open despite the stabbing pain of morning light.

Freya Riley lay curled beside me, still fully clothed, her face flushed with an unnatural color. My arm was draped possessively over her waist, her back pressed against my chest in a position far too intimate for our complicated relationship.

I carefully extracted my arm, moving to create distance between us. The movement seemed to disturb her sleep, a small sound of discomfort escaping her lips. Her skin radiated heat—not the pleasant warmth of a sleeping wolf, but the concerning heat of illness.

"Riley," I said, my voice rough from sleep and alcohol.

She didn't respond, her breathing shallow and rapid. I placed my hand against her forehead, alarmed at the burning temperature I found there. Even for a werewolf, whose natural temperature runs higher than humans, she was dangerously hot.

"Freya," I tried again, gently turning her to face me.

Her eyelids fluttered but didn't open fully. Her cheeks were flushed bright red, a stark contrast to the paleness of the rest of her face. Sweat beaded along her hairline despite the cool temperature of the room.

Concern shot through me like an electric current, instantly clearing the fog of my hangover. I noticed her neck where the moon-shaped birthmark seemed to pulse with an unnatural silver-white light. Something was very wrong. Werewolves rarely fell ill, our bodies naturally fighting off most infections with ease. For Freya to develop such a high fever overnight suggested something serious—perhaps a reaction to lingering moon-silver in her system.

My wolf surged forward with protective instinct as I gripped her shoulders, giving her a gentle shake.

"Freya, what's wrong?" I asked, my voice rising with urgency.

When she remained unresponsive, panic gripped my chest. I cupped her face between my hands, feeling the alarming heat radiating from her skin.

"Freya, wake up!" I shouted, unable to mask the fear in my voice. My Alpha command slipped into the words involuntarily, driven by a protective instinct that had nothing to do with my position as Alpha and everything to do with the woman burning with fever in my bed.