Chosen To Be The Alpha's Surrogate

I stand there, the heat of Jax's body at my back, his breath fanning my ear. Something tells me to go, to move away. But something else, something that feels much bigger and much harder to fight tells me not to.

*Breathe. It's nothing unless you make something out of it.*

"Basic stance," he says after what feels like an eternity, his voice suddenly professional though his hands linger on my shoulders a moment longer than necessary. "Feet shoulder-width apart."

I consider refusing, but something in me responds to the authority in his tone or perhaps to something deeper, something I pretend to ignore. I adjust my stance, hyperaware of every inch of space between us as his hands slide down my arms to correct my position. Each point of contact burns through the thin fabric of my clothes, leaving trails of unwanted awareness in their wake.

"Wider," he commands, and even this simple word carries layers of meaning I try desperately to ignore. "You're favoring your right side. It leaves you vulnerable."

"Everything leaves me vulnerable right now," I snap, but I widen my stance. The baby shifts again, as if agreeing, and I have to fight the urge to curl my arms protectively around my belly.

His chuckle brushes against my ear, low and intimate, sending unwanted warmth through my core. "Good girl." The praise shouldn't affect me, but it does. "Now, when someone grabs you from behind_"

His arm wraps around me, the movement deliberately slow, giving me time to process each second of contact. He's careful of my belly, but the hold is firm enough to trap my arms, to remind me of just how helpless I could be. His chest presses against my back, and something in me aches.

*Stop it! Focus.*

I struggle instinctively, but it's like fighting a mountain-immovable, inevitable. The futility of it makes something twist in my chest.

"Stop," he orders, his voice gentler than before. "Think. What's your advantage?"

"I don't have one," I grit out, my voice trembling despite my greatest efforts against it. His heat seeps into me, making it hard to think. "You're stronger than me."

His free hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from my neck. "Everyone is stronger than you, princess," he says, his breath hot against my skin. "That's not the point. Your advantage is that they'll underestimate you. Use it."

Time loses meaning as he drills me in basic defense moves. His hands are everywhere-adjusting my stance, demonstrating holds, teaching me weak points to target. Each touch is professional, purposeful, yet every point of contact feels charged with something more. The air grows thick with tension, with possibilities I refuse to acknowledge.

For the next hour, he drills me relentlessly, though his hands never lose their careful awareness of my condition. Something shifts in the air between us as time passes the professional facade cracking at the edges, revealing glimpses of deeper currents underneath. Each time I fail to break his hold, his touches linger a fraction longer. Each time I succeed, his praise carries an edge of pride that stirs something dangerous in my chest.

"You're fighting yourself," he says after my tenth failed attempt to break free. His hands grip my waist, steadying me as I stumble. The heat of his palms bleeds through my clothes, making it hard to focus. "Stop thinking about what your body can't do and focus on what it can."

"I'm trying," I snap, frustration building in my chest. Every point of contact between us burns in a way it shouldn't, aching with a feeling I desperately try to deny. My skin hums with awareness, my body betraying me with every touch. "But you're not exactly making it easy."

Something dark flashes in his eyes. His grip tightens fractionally, not enough to hurt but enough to remind me of his strength. "You think an attacker will make it easy?" He spins me to face him, and suddenly we're chest to chest, his presence overwhelming. "You think they'll care that you're carrying Malachi's child?"

Guilt floods through me then, hot and bitter on my tongue.

*What would Malachi think if he could see me now? His mate, letting another man's hands brand her skin, even under the guise of training?*

"That's enough," I spit, stepping back. The loss of contact should be a relief, but instead, I feel bereft, untethered. "I'm done."

"Running away again, *princess*?" The taunt carries an edge of something that makes my blood boil. "Like you're running from what's between us?"

Rage explodes in my chest, hot and pure. I whirl back to face him, embracing the anger because it's safer than the other emotions churning beneath the surface. "There is nothing between us!"

He closes the distance between us in two long strides. I can feel the heat radiating off his skin, see the muscle working in his jaw as he fights for control. "No?" His voice drops lower, intimate in a way that makes my breath catch. "Then why is your heart racing? Why can't you look me in the eye without your breath catching?"

He leans closer, and I catch the slight tremor in his hands, as if he's physically restraining himself from touching me. "Why do you smell like desire with a bitter taste of guilt every time I touch you?"

The words make my skin run hot, light sweat breaking in my palms. I want to deny it, to scream that he's wrong. But the truth sits heavy on my tongue, choking me.

"I hate you," I whisper, but the words shatter between us, fragile and unconvincing even to my own ears.

His eyes soften, though the intensity behind them only grows. "No, you don't." He reaches out, his fingers hovering near my cheek without touching. "That's what terrifies you, isn't it? How much you *don't* hate me?"

I can't listen to this.

I can't let his words sink into all the cracks he's created in my defenses.

Without another word, I turn and flee toward the door, my legs shaking with each step. The urge to look back burns in my chest, but I resist.

"Same time tomorrow, princess," he calls after me, his voice carrying that maddening mix of command and gentle understanding. "Don't be late."

I slam the door behind me, but not before I hear his low chuckle. It follows me down the corridor, along with all the truths I'm trying so desperately to outrun. Tears of frustration burn in my eyes as I hurry through the shadows, one hand pressed to my racing heart, the other cradling my belly.

I tell myself it's just hormones, just the pregnancy making me emotional. But deep down, in places I don't want to search, I know better. The worst part isn't that Jax got under my skin-it's that part of me is already counting the hours until tomorrow night, even as guilt eats away at my conscience.

The baby kicks again, gentler this time, as if trying to comfort me. Or perhaps remind me of everything I have to lose if I let these dangerous feelings take root.

I've never felt more lost, more torn between what I know is right and what my body, my instincts, seem to crave. The mate bond I share with Malachi feels like a lifeline in the darkness, but even that seems to waver, threatened by this new pull I can't seem to fight.

*I'm sorry, Malachi. I'm so sorry.*

But I'm not sure if I'm apologizing for what happened tonight, or for the fact that some treacherous part of me is already looking forward to tomorrow.