The Rejected daughter chosen by the Alpha (Maya and Atila) novel Chapter 92

Chapter 92

– MAYA

“Glass of wine?” I asked, trying a little too hard to sound casual for this hour.

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He seemed to consider it. His tongue swept slowly over his lips, almost absent-minded-but I noticed.

“Just one,” he finally said. “Please.”

I went to the kitchen for another glass and the bottle. My hands were still trembling slightly, but I blamed the nightmare.

“Were my screams really that loud?” I asked as I poured.

“Yeah.” His answer was measured. “They were… concerning.”

I handed him the glass. Our fingers almost brushed.

“Hope I didn’t wake the whole building.”

“Probably not.” He lifted the glass to his lips. “There’s soundproofing between floors. The building’s old, but they updated that. It’s the walls between apartments that are thin. Not much insulation there.”

Heat crept up my face. “So I only disturbed you.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched me over the rim of his glass.

God. There was something dangerous about the way he looked at me like that-quiet, focused, unreadable.

“If this isn’t too personal,” he said after a moment, “do you remember the nightmare?”

“Ah. The nightmare.” I took a slow breath, “It’s always the same. I dream about fire. About it burning me.” I paused. “I think it’s because of a car accident I was in. Burned my back. Maybe my brain just… latched onto it.”

He slowly lowered his glass. “A car accident? What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

He frowned. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“All I know is what Beatrice told me. The roommate I mentioned.” My fingers twisted together. “I lost six months of memory. I barely remember anything from that time. I only know what she tells

me.”

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He studied me more closely. “And you believe her?”

“Yes. She’s a good person. I trust her.”

“I see.”

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He grew thoughtful, swirling the wine in his glass. The red liquid moved in slow circles against the crystal.

“Amnesia is interesting,” he said. “I know someone who forgot a few months of their life. And, strangely enough, erased every memory-every trace-of one specific person.”

I offered a small sideways smile. “A friend?”

He took his time answering. The silence thickened between us. He looked at me like he was deciding how much to say-or how much to keep to himself.

“No,” he said finally. “Just someone I knew.”

I looked down at my hands. “The person she forgot… was it her boyfriend?”

“Something like that.” His tone was clipped. Then his gaze sharpened on me. “Are you feeling better

now?”

He stood.

“Yes. Of course.”

“Then I should go.”

He moved past me toward the door. And in that instant, a sharp, burning sting shot across my back. A deep, almost painful itch.

“Ah.”

He stopped immediately, his hand closing around my arm. “What is it? Are you hurting?”

“It’s nothing.” I forced a smile. “The scar on my back. Sometimes it itches like crazy.”

“Want me to do something?”

“You don’t have to. You’ve already been more than kind coming over, I don’t want to take up more of your time.”

“It’s no trouble.” His response was quick. His voice lowered. “Take off your shirt. I’ll help where it bothers you.”

I froze for a second.

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He wants me to take off my shirt?

Don’t be ridiculous, Maya. He’s just trying to help.

I swallowed and turned my back to him, pulling the tee over my head. I was left in Cool air brushed against my skin.

I shifted slightly, giving him a better view of the scar along the right side of

my back.

He stepped closer.

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my

black bra.

“That scar…” he murmured.

“Is it really bad?” I asked, biting my lip.

“No.” His voice shifted. Softer. Rougher. “It looks like a painting.”

I smiled shyly. “That’s sweet.”

“Where does it itch?”

“Here.” I guided my hand to the exact spot.

He lifted his hand slowly. Didn’t touch me right away. Like he was asking without words.

When his fingers finally met my skin, it was light. Careful. Almost tentative.

His breathing deepened. So did mine.

He started scratching slowly, tracing small movements around the scar. The warmth of his fingers against the cool air made everything more intense.

I closed my eyes,

My body reacted before I could stop it. A shiver ran up my spine.

“Like that?” he asked, his voice low.

“Mhm.”

His fingers moved slightly to the side. The pressure increased. It wasn’t rushed. It was slow. Intentional.

And it did something to me.

The kind of touch that wakes your

skin

When he stopped, I turned to thank him-and caught him staring.

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His gaze had dropped. To the outline of my bra. To the curve of my breasts.

He immediately lifted his eyes to my face, like he was pulling himself back.

“Want to stay a little longer?” I asked, my voice softer now… edged with mischief.

I let my fingertips drift over his chest.

Solid. Tense.

He caught my wrist-not harsh, but firm enough to stop me.

“Don’t tease me,” he said, his voice rough. “I’m your professor.”

I held his gaze.

“So?” I murmured. “We’re adults. We can do whatever we want.”

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My fingers found the clasp of my bra. I let the straps slide off my shoulders and, slowly- deliberately-pulled the fabric forward and let it fall to the floor between us.

I tipped my head back, letting my hair fall behind me, feeling the cool night air against my bare skin. My heart was pounding, but I didn’t look away.

He didn’t move. Not at all. But his eyes-God, his eyes-dragged slowly downward, tracing the curve of my breasts in a way that made heat bloom low in my stomach. His jaw tightened. A muscle icked in his cheek. A vein pulsed at his temple.

How far does that control of yours really go, Professor? I wondered, a dangerous thrill sliding hrough me.

‘You know,” I said, my voice lower now, huskier, “I’ve always had a thing for older men. The serious ones. Like you.”

He frowned, and for the first time since I’d met him, I saw something beneath the professional restraint. Something sharper. Hungrier.

‘Always?” he repeated evenly. “Since when? Have you been with someone like that before?”

That wasn’t the tone of a professor checking on a student. That was a man asking about another

man.

I stepped closer, closing the space he’d tried to keep. The heat of his body felt magnetic.

‘I’ve never had a serious boyfriend,” I admitted, holding his eyes. “But from the first day you walked into that classroom-with all that hard edge and intensity-I knew I needed a man like you.” My hand lifted, fingers brushing the strong line of his neck. He shuddered, a visible tremor passing through him at my touch.

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Without breaking eye contact, I took his hand-the same hand that had touched my scar so gently -and placed it over my breast. His palm was warm, slightly rough, and the contact sent a jolt straight through me.

He stopped breathing.

Then his fingers tightened. Firm. Not gentle, but not rough either. Possessive. Testing. His thumb brushed over my hardened nipple, and a soft sound slipped from my lips before I could stop it.

He was fighting himself. I could see it in his eyes, in the tension in his arm, in the way his mouth pressed into a tight line. The professor. The disciplined man. The one who always had control.

And the one standing in front of me, breathing harder, desire written all over his face.

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