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Summary
He bared his teeth at the empty room.
Ivan. That bastard. That smug, cold-eyed, too-carefully-spoken brute of a man. Towering. Scarred. Built like every horror story Alfred’s nannies ever told him when he was a pup, meant to keep him inside the castle walls.
He hadn’t listened then either.
Alfred kicked the wall. “Fucking Alpha.”
He hated him.
He hated the way Ivan moved in silence like he owned the earth itself. Hated the war-torn skin stretched over those ridiculous muscles, each scar a reminder that Ivan survived, that he won. Hated the steadiness of his voice, the way it didn’t rise when Alfred screamed in his face. Like nothing Alfred did mattered. Like he could throw a tantrum and Ivan would just look at him with those dead eyes and wait it out.