Ruthless Alpha, and his Curvy Saint-Chapter 47

Alpha Terrell’s POV

I found Gareth, Bellick, and Kade in the quarters they’d been assigned - a large room near the guest wing, currently being used for something much more important than sleeping.

They were waiting for me.

Of course they were.

"My brother is courting my mate," I announced, closing the door behind me.

"We know," Gareth said, with the tone of someone who has been sitting on information for some time. "The whole castle knows. Apparently, servants talk."

"Fix it," I snapped.

"How exactly would you like us to fix it?" Kade asked. "We can’t touch the lord of the house. And Angel isn’t technically refusing his attention. From what I saw, she actually seemed to enjoy her dinner."

"I know," I growled, dropping into a chair and pressing my fingers against my temple. "God, I know. The smile she gave him when he leaned in..."

"Are we describing her smile now?" Bellick asked. "Because that feels like a new development."

"Shut up."

"Just saying, a week ago you were planning to reject her. Now you’re fantasizing about her facial expressions." He scratched his chin. "Significant progress."

"The storm is keeping us here," I said through gritted teeth. "Every day we stay in this castle is another day Merrick can work his charm on her. Another day she looks at him like..." I stopped.

Like he’s someone worth looking at.

Unlike me.

"Tell her the truth," Bellick said. Not for the first time.

"No."

"Terrell..."

"No." My voice snapped like a whip. "Think about it. If I tell her now, she finds out that the man she’s been trusting, confiding in, looking to for protection, is actually the Alpha who murdered her family. What do you think that does? It destroys every good thing between us. Every moment of trust we’ve built. And then where does she turn?" I looked at them all. "Straight to Merrick. Whose arms are open and waiting."

The logic sat heavy in the room.

Gareth sighed. "You can’t keep this up forever."

"I know. I just need to get her home. Get her to Black Wolf territory, onto my ground, where I can control the variables. Then..." I exhaled. "Then I’ll figure out how to tell her the truth without losing her entirely."

"And what if Merrick tells her first?" Kade asked.

"He won’t. He threatened to, but he won’t. He’s infuriating, not cruel."

"What about the assassin?" Bellick’s voice dropped. "Someone is still out there. Someone who wants her dead. Being in this castle might actually be the safest place for her right now."

The thought sat uncomfortably.

He was right.

This storm - which I’d been cursing with every breath - was keeping Angel in a fortified location, away from open roads and hidden archers and poisoned arrows.

But it was also trapping her with my twin brother, who had apparently decided to make it his personal mission to charm my mate into his arms.

"Gods," I muttered, dropping my head into my hands. "This is a disaster."

"On the bright side," Kade offered cheerfully, "she looked absolutely incredible at dinner tonight. That green dress..."

I lifted my head and stared at him.

He coughed. "I mean. Terrible. Disaster. Completely agree with everything."

Angel’s POV

I was deep in the most wonderful dream.

Something about sunlight and a garden and someone with kind eyes saying my name like it was the most beautiful word in any language...

Bang. Bang. Bang.

I jolted awake.

Darkness. The room was still dark. Outside the windows, rain still hammered the glass. The lamp had burned low.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

"Angel!" Lyra’s voice came urgently through the door, barely above a whisper but somehow still conveying extreme desperation. "Angel, please. I need to speak with you immediately."

I stared at the ceiling.

"What time is it?" I called back.

"Early. Very early. Before the roosters. Please open the door."

"Lyra, it’s the middle of the night..."

"It’s important."

"Is someone dying?"

A pause.

"Not physically."

I groaned, dragging myself upright. My wonderful bed protested my departure, the sheets clinging to me like they knew I was making a mistake.

I opened the door.

Lyra stood in the corridor in her nightgown, her hair loose, her eyes bright despite the hour.

She looked at me.

I looked at her.

"What," I said flatly, "could possibly be so urgent before the roosters have even considered waking up?"

"I need to borrow a dress."

I stared at her.

"One of your dresses," she clarified, as if that was the confusing part. "One of the ones Lord Merrick sent. One of the bigger ones."

"Lyra..."

"Hear me out!" She held up her hands. "You said Merrick prefers curvy women. I am not a curvy woman. I am frustratingly, infuriatingly not curvy. But..." She raised one finger dramatically. "If I wear one of your dresses, which are designed to emphasize curves, and I stuff it appropriately in the right places..."

"You want to stuff my dress."

"To create the illusion of curves, yes."

I blinked at her. Then blinked again.

"It’s not even dawn yet," I said.

"I know, but I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about what you told me. About his preferences. And I thought, well, I can’t change my body overnight - which I certainly plan on doing - but I can absolutely suggest curves through clever dress construction." She paused. "Your clothes are the right size for stuffing."

"That’s... not how bodies work."

"You don’t know that."

"I’m fairly certain I do."

"Angel." She grabbed my hands with both of hers, her eyes enormous with pleading. "Please. I know this is probably impossible. I know I’m grasping at straws. But he’s so beautiful, and he’s right there, in this castle, and the storm is keeping us here, and this might be my only chance..." 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝕨𝕖𝗯𝚗𝚘𝕧𝕖𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝕞

I looked at her face.

At the genuine, desperate hope written there.

At the girl who’d been cruel to me, yes. Who’d mocked my body, yes. But who was standing before me in her nightgown in the dark before dawn, asking for help with the same vulnerability she’d probably never shown anyone.

"Fine," I said.

Her face lit up. "Really?"

"But I want to be clear about something."

"Anything. Yes. Whatever you want."

"Merrick is never going to be fooled by stuffing," I said honestly. "He can see bodies very clearly. He’ll notice immediately if something doesn’t... sit right."

Lyra’s enthusiasm dimmed slightly.

"But," I continued, moving toward the wardrobe, "a properly fitting dress in the right style can absolutely complement any body type and make a woman feel confident. And confidence is what actually attracts attention."

Lyra was quiet for a moment.

"How do you know that?" she asked.

"Three years in a convent," I replied. "The nuns may not have had much experience with men, but they had a lot to say about presenting yourself with grace and dignity."

I pulled out a deep burgundy dress - one of the simpler styles, with a flowing skirt and a bodice that gathered beautifully regardless of size.

"Try this one," I said. "And maybe we see what we can do with your hair."

Lyra took the dress reverently, holding it like it was something precious.

"Angel," she said quietly.

"What?"

"I know I’ve been terrible to you. I know I don’t deserve your kindness." She met my eyes. "Why are you helping me?"

I thought about it for a moment.

"Because someone once told me to try embracing people instead of condemning them," I said finally. "And I’m trying to take that advice."

Lyra stared at me.

Then, to my absolute shock, her eyes filled with tears.

"You’re a better person than me," she whispered.

"You don’t know that yet," I said gently. "But maybe you could try proving me wrong."

Lyra nodded and straightened up, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, and held up the dress with renewed determination.

"Right," she announced, her usual fire returning. "Tell me everything about grace and dignity. And maybe also how to make my chest look bigger. For dignity purposes."

I pressed my lips together hard.

"Lyra..."

"I’m kidding." She grinned. "Mostly."

I gave up trying not to laugh.

*****

The next hour was unlike anything I’d experienced since leaving the convent.

"Hold still," I muttered, my teeth clamped around a spare ribbon as I gathered the back of the burgundy dress, trying to make it sit properly against Lyra’s much slimmer frame.

"I’m holding still! You’re the one pulling too tight!"

"I’m not pulling tight, I’m gathering. There’s a difference."

"It doesn’t feel different from where I’m standing."

"That’s because you’re standing wrong. Straighten your spine."

"My spine is straight!"

"Lyra, I can see your spine. It is not straight."

She huffed but corrected her posture.

I stepped back and examined my work. The dress was made for my body - full hips, generous bust, a waist that curved dramatically. On Lyra’s slender frame, it pooled differently, hanging in ways it wasn’t designed for.

But the dress was beautiful. And beautiful dresses had a way of doing half the work on its own.

"Right," I murmured, thinking.

The convent had taught me surprisingly practical things. How to alter clothing with minimal tools. How to make one garment serve multiple purposes. How to dress bodies of all shapes with dignity.

Sister Margaret had been very particular about personal presentation.

God is in the details, she’d always said. Even in how we clothe ourselves.

I’d thought it was vanity at the time.

Now It certainly wasn’t.

"Do you have anything I can use as a belt?" I asked Lyra.

"There’s a sash on my traveling dress. In my room."

"Go get it."