Off limits to fate, My Alpha, my sin

POV: Alana

The sound of my fist cracking against the leather bag was the only thing keeping me from screaming.

Again.

The chain creaked overhead. Sweat dripped from my temple, stinging my eyes. My arms burned, but I didn’t stop. Not when the pain was the only thing louder than the voice in my head.

Beta’s daughter.

Alpha bloodline.

Political pawn.

Future Luna, maybe—if I’m valuable enough.

I struck again, harder this time, until the bag swung on its chain and came back toward me like it wanted to fight.

Good.

Let it try.

I spun and slammed it with my elbow, the impact vibrating through my bones. My breath came in sharp bursts. My tank top was soaked through. My knuckles were raw, even under the wraps. I didn’t care.

This was the only place I wasn’t someone’s legacy. Not Charles Melnick’s daughter. Not one of the only females with Alpha blood unmated. Not any Alpha Blood fucking Volkmer-descended Alpha blood. Not a bargaining chip. Not a body to be offered.

Just fists. Just fury. Just me.

“Your guard’s dropping.”

I froze.

Because I would recognize that voice in any circumstance.

The voice was deep. Rough. Too calm.

Him.

Fucking him.

I turned slowly, heart already racing—and not from the workout.

Alpha Jacob Kheller stood in the doorway of the private training hall, arms crossed, lean muscles straining against the sleeves of a black tactical shirt. Fucking perfect muscles. His dark hair was damp at the edges like he’d just run, and those impossibly blue eyes were fixed on me with that same unreadable calm that made me want to scream.

Or kiss him.

Or both.

I hate how handsome and hot and sexy and—Goddess, sometimes I still feel like a teenager around him.

Maybe because he was my first crush—who am I kidding? My only crush. I’ve secretly wanted him forever. All my heat dreams are about him. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s my dad’s hot best friend. Maybe it’s because he’s the Alpha of my pack. Maybe it’s because he’s forbidden.

But honestly? None of it matters.

Because my mind just short-circuits when he’s around.

He stepped into the room, each movement controlled like his body was wired too tightly to ever fully relax. And I hate how he’s always in command.

Or… maybe I love it.

“Nice of you to join,” I muttered, turning back to the bag and throwing another punch.

“I wasn’t scheduled,” he said simply. “Saw the lights on. Thought I’d spar.”

With me?

He never trained with me. Not alone. Not like this.

What the hell is going on?

My heart thudded harder. My wolf stirred.

I didn’t look at him when I spoke again. “I’m not in the mood for a lecture.”

“You’re dropping your guard,” he repeated. “If you’re going to punch like you want to kill something, at least keep your stance tight.”

My lip curled. “Thanks, Alpha.”

He said nothing. I could feel him watching me. Judging me. Or maybe—not judging. Noticing.

That was worse.

I hit the bag again. My breath was faster now, but not from effort. It was him. His scent. The presence that always filled a room like thunder.

And the way my body reacted—heat low in my belly, skin too tight, breath too short—it was instinct. Desire. Something primal I couldn’t suppress anymore.

“I think we both need something physical to clear our minds for what’s coming…” he said.

I exhaled hard. “So you’re also about to be offered to some regional Alpha as a gift?” I needed to say that.

“Watch your mouth. I’m still your Alpha,” he snapped first. Then, quieter—“I never agreed with this. It’s your father’s idea.”

I glanced at him.

He was closer than I realized.

My gaze dropped before I could stop it—chest, hips, arms.

Fuck.

I hated how much I wanted him. Even when I wanted to fight him.

And I hated how good he was at pretending he didn’t want me.

“You want to spar or not?” I asked.

He smirked, stepping forward. Shoulders loose. Hands ready.

I raised my fists and circled him slowly.

Jacob didn’t move. Not at first. He just watched me—calm, unreadable. Like always.

But this time… his gaze dropped.

Lower.

My arms. My waist. My thighs.

My skin burned under the weight of it.

He didn’t flinch or shift away like he usually did. He looked. Just for a second.

And I saw it.

A crack in the armor.

His nostrils flared. He was scenting me.

My scent.

His throat bobbed when he swallowed.

His fingers flexed at his sides.

His body reacting—just as mine did.

You felt that too, didn’t you?

My pulse quickened. My wolf surged beneath my skin like she’d been waiting for this moment all her life.

All the years of hiding, of silence, of pretending I didn’t want him—they were over.

I needed to focus.

Come on. Get a grip.

I was just a kid to him. Just Charles Melnick’s daughter. Off-limits.

I threw the first punch.

He blocked it easily. Of course he did.

But I followed with a low sweep that made him hop back a step. His brow lifted—just a little.

Impressed.

It made my stomach flip.

I didn’t stop.

Hit. Dodge. Hit again.

We moved fast and fluid, instinct and training crashing together like waves.

Breath against breath. Skin brushing skin.

My lungs burned—but not from effort.

From him.

From the way his scent filled the space—pine and rain and something darker. Masculine. Dominant. The scent that had haunted my dreams since I was fifteen.

From the way his arms flexed every time he blocked me.

From the way our bodies brushed—once, twice, too deliberately to ignore.

The way my wolf paced in my blood, alive with hunger.

And then he pinned me.

It happened fast.

He caught my wrist mid-swing, twisted, spun me around, and slammed me down onto the mat. My c hit hard.

His chest pressed against me.

One arm wrapped around my waist.

The other gripped my wrist, holding me still.

I froze.

Every nerve lit up like fire.

I felt everything.

His breath at my neck.

The tight, hard heat of his body against mine.

The low, controlled pant of his lungs.

His chest rising too fast.

His cock—hard, pressed to the curve of my ass.

Oh. Oh Goddess.

A second passed.

Two.

He didn’t move.

Neither did I.

It was a fucking dream come true.

And my true desire?

To turn around. To kiss him. To let go.

He was breathing like I was. Rough. Labored. Unsteady.

He smelled like heat and control barely hanging on.

“Alana,” he said, voice low, hoarse. “You need to—”

“Let me go?” I whispered, not sure if I wanted him to.

His grip didn’t loosen.

Because he couldn’t.

Because I was right there.

And he was hard.

Heat pooled low in my belly.

Need. Desire. Lust.

He cursed under his breath and stepped back—too fast, like touching me burned.

I turned slowly to face him. My chest heaving. Skin flushed. And I knew—knew—my eyes were glowing.

“You felt that,” I said.

He looked away.

“I felt nothing,” he said tightly. “I was sparring with you.”

Liar.

But I saw it in the tense line of his jaw.

In the way his hands curled into fists.

The way his voice came strained—like he couldn’t believe it himself.

That was all the confirmation I needed.

I smirked, slow and wicked. “So you’re not as cold as you pretend to be.”

My green eyes locked onto his. I saw it—the flicker of light.

His wolf, rising to meet mine.

For a moment, I swore he’d take two steps forward and kiss me.

Finally close the space between us.

Finally give in.

Then it was gone.

“You should shower,” he said flatly. “You’re sweating through your shirt.”

And he walked out.