Twin Alpha's Black Hearts

Godiva

Warmth wasn’t what welcomed me home.

It was shouting.

“A little whore! I should’ve never taken you into my house!”

Aunt Caylee’s voice cut through the hallway like a blade as she pressed an ice pack to Kayleigh’s bruised forehead. Kayleigh whimpered dramatically, leaning into her mother.

“Mom, kick her out. I’m cursed because of her.”

“Don’t worry, darling. I will.” Aunt Caylee’s glare snapped toward me, sharp and poisonous. “You heard that, Godiva? Get out before this house gets destroyed again because you’re selling your body to strangers!”

I should’ve been angry. But all I felt was… relief. Finally.

They were throwing me out.

Before I could respond, Kayleigh rose from the couch and met me at my bedroom door. Her palm cracked across my cheek so hard my head snapped to the side. A hot sting bloomed instantly.

“That’s for the man who hit me,” she spat.

I tasted blood on my lip.

I didn’t even know what man she meant. I didn't know what happened while I was gone. They claimed someone had barged into the house, demanded my things, rummaged through my room, took my scarf, and struck Kayleigh when she tried to interfere.

And somehow… it was all my fault.

Every breath, every choice, every existence of mine—always something to blame.

After packed my things, I walked past her without a word. She kept hurling insults, each one uglier than the last. Near the doorway, Aunt Caylee stood with her arms crossed, satisfaction twisting her face like she’d just scraped filth off her floor.

And just outside, under the flickering streetlamp, stood Castor.

He didn’t move as I approached. His expression was cold—colder than the wind slicing through the night. I dragged my small suitcase behind me, refusing to let the weight of everything show.

The city lights blurred around us while we walked. Castor stayed close, silent but sharply alert. I avoided looking at him. The bandage around my neck still throbbed—a reminder of how everything had spiraled since last twelve hours.

“I told you,” I muttered, voice cracked but steady enough. “I’m not your mate. Why are you following me?”

“Yes, you are,” he said simply, quietly. “And I’m staying with you. Come to my apartment. You have nowhere else to go.”

The words hit harder than any slap.

“I’ll find somewhere else,” I said. “A motel. A bench. I don’t need your help.”

“You’re bleeding,” he murmured.

I paused.

The cool breeze brushed my face as I lifted my fingers to my lip. They came away warm and red.

Great.

I tried to keep moving, but he stepped in front of me—calm, unmoving, like a wall carved from stone.

“Godiva,” he said softly, “you don’t have to pretend you’re okay.”

“I’ve been okay alone my whole life,” I snapped. “Without you. Without anyone.”

Something shifted in his eyes—pain, sharp and unmistakable.

“You weren’t supposed to live like this,” he whispered. “Not suffering. Not being hurt.”

“What do you know about my life?”

“Enough,” he answered without hesitation.

He tilted my chin with just two fingers—barely a touch—but it felt like fire tracing down my spine.

“You deserve protection,” he murmured. “Comfort. A place where no one raises a hand against you.”

I swallowed hard and stepped back, breaking the contact.

“I’m not a fantasy you get to save,” I said.

“This isn’t romance,” he replied. “It’s instinct.”

His gaze followed me even as I put space between us—like he could feel every breath, every tremble.

“I don’t want a mate,” I said. “Especially not you.”

The city went eerily quiet.

Castor inhaled slowly. “You can avoid me all you want. The bond won’t disappear. I’ll live with that.” His jaw hardened. “But you walking alone into danger? That I won’t allow.”

Before I could argue, a black SUV pulled up beside us. One of his men stepped out silently and opened the back door.

“Come,” Castor said. “I’ll take you.”

I hesitated for a second… then climbed in.

The ride was silent. Heavy.

Castor sat with his elbows on his knees, fingers interlaced, head bowed like he was fighting something invisible. The car sped through dim streets, weaving through patches of shadow.

And the longer we drove, the tighter the knot in my chest grew.

Finally, the SUV slowed.

His apartment tower—Sycamore Heights—loomed above us, dark and tall, its windows glinting against the night. It looked expensive, modern, safe.

Yet something about it felt wrong.

The elevator chimed softly as we reached the right floor. Castor stepped out first, scanning the hallway with sharp, predatory focus. I followed, gripping my coat around me.

“This is temporary,” he said, glancing back. “Just until we figure out who’s after you.”

Unit 10 waited at the end of the corridor.

But the closer we walked, the heavier the air grew. The lights flickered once. Then again.

A wall lamp was cracked—like someone hit it with too much force.

And then…

A smell curled into my nose. Metallic. Sharp. Coppery.

Blood.

“Castor?” I whispered.

He froze mid-step.

That small pause—tight, sharp, lethal—shot terror up my spine.

His arm went out instantly, barring my path.

“Stay here.”

“But—”

“Godiva.” His voice hardened. “Stay.”

I pressed my lips shut.

He moved toward the door in slow, controlled steps—listening, scenting the air. He reached the threshold—

And stopped.

The door to Unit 10 hung crooked—broken clean off one hinge, wood splintered like something had rammed straight through it.

“Oh my god…” I breathed.

Castor nudged it open with his foot.

The apartment was chaos.

Furniture overturned. Cushions slashed. Shattered glass littering the floor. Deep claw marks raked across the walls.

And near the kitchen counter—

A body.

Marco—the night security guard—lay motionless on the tiles. His skin was pale, lips blue, eyes open in frozen terror. A brutal wound tore into his throat, dried blood staining his shirt.

I staggered backward, hand covering my mouth.

“Why—why would anyone—why come here?” My voice broke.

Castor crouched beside the body, shoulders trembling with barely contained fury.

“He wasn’t supposed to be inside,” he muttered. “He must’ve heard something. Tried to stop it.”

He inhaled deeply. His expression darkened instantly. Predatory.

“Castor?” My voice was barely a breath.

He looked up. His golden eyes glowed.

“It was here,” he said. “Recently.”

“What was here?”

But I already knew. A chill slithered down my spine.

Castor stood and walked toward me slowly, heat rolling off him like a shield.

“The thing like at your aunt’s house,” he said quietly. “The shadow you felt. The hiss in the dark.”

I swallowed hard. “Yes.”

“It didn’t stumble on you by accident.” His voice dropped, dangerous. “It came looking for you.”

My knees weakened.

“You mean—”

“The bloodsucker tracked you here.” He gestured to the trashed apartment.

“It tore the place apart… while searching for you.”

The room tilted.

Fear tightened my chest—but beneath it, something hotter pulsed.

Castor stepped closer. Close enough that I felt warmth radiating from him.

“You understand now?” he murmured. “You’re not safe. Not alone. Not anywhere they can catch your scent.”

My voice trembled. “Then where do I go?”

His answer came without hesitation.

“With me.”

He didn’t touch me. Just waited—steady, fierce, unyielding.

“Let me protect you,” he said softly.

My breath hitched.

And before my mind could catch up—my body answered first.

I nodded.