Torn Between The Alpha And The Billionaire

Mara trudged through the forest, her fingers brushing over the necklace hanging safely around her neck. Relief mingled with frustration as she made her way back toward the edge of the woods. She was happy to have recovered the precious keepsake of her mother, but the hollow feeling in her chest remained. She had come here for a story—something thrilling, something to prove herself. And yet, she had nothing.

Nothing except… him.

Her lips pressed into a thin line as her thoughts drifted back to the man. Who lives alone in a forest these days? And that attitude—so dismissive, so arrogant. Mara scoffed aloud. "What's his deal, anyway? Owner of the forest? So what?"

Her steps slowed as curiosity gnawed at her. He was suspicious, there was no denying it. And that hut… something about it didn't sit right with her.

Before she could stop herself, her feet stilled, and she glanced back over her shoulder. Her pulse quickened as a thought began to form.

Don't do it, Mara. You're a journalist, not a trespasser. This is practically a crime.

But her resolve crumbled in an instant. "Screw it," she muttered under her breath and turned around. The forest seemed quieter now, almost holding its breath as she retraced her steps toward the hut.

As she neared the clearing, she slowed her pace, her body instinctively pressing against the rough bark of a large tree. Peering cautiously from behind the trunk, she scanned the area. The hut stood still and silent, but it wasn't the building that caught her eye.

Her breath hitched as she noticed something smeared on the backside of the tree. She leaned closer, her heart thundering in her chest.

A bloody handprint.

It was faint, as though whoever had left it was injured but trying to keep moving. Mara's gaze darted to the ground, and a few feet away, she spotted another handprint on a separate tree.

Her instincts flared, and without thinking, she followed the trail. The sparse marks grew less frequent, and she felt like a detective piecing together a crime scene in real-time. Her boots crunched softly against the leaves as she moved deeper into the forest, each step tingling with anticipation and unease.

The handprints stopped abruptly. Mara frowned, glancing around. There were no signs of blood, no markings, nothing to suggest where the trail had led. She exhaled in frustration, brushing her hair out of her face.

"Just great," she muttered, shaking her head.

As she turned to walk back, her foot sank into something wet and squelchy. She yelped, stumbling forward and catching herself on a nearby tree trunk. Her boot felt stuck, and she cursed under her breath, pulling at it. When it finally came free, she groaned at the sight—her boot was covered in thick mud.

But it wasn't just mud.

Her heart stopped as she noticed the smear of red mixed with the dirt. Blood.

Mara's stomach churned as she stared at the blood smeared on her boot. She crouched down, her hands trembling slightly as she inspected the ground. The soil was damp, darker than the rest around it, and something about it seemed… disturbed. The earth wasn't compact like the untouched areas around it—it had been moved recently.

Her breath hitched. Her instincts screamed for her to turn back, to leave this forest and never look back. But the journalist in her refused. She had to know.

With shaky hands, she glanced around, searching for anything she could use. Her flashlight beam caught a sturdy stick lying a few feet away. She grabbed it and began poking at the soft ground.

The soil gave way easily, almost too easily. It confirmed her suspicion: someone had dug here recently, and whatever they buried, they didn't want it found.

Her pulse quickened as she worked, the stick turning over chunks of damp earth. The deeper she went, the wetter the soil became, clinging to her hands and knees as she dug frantically.

Then, her stick hit something solid.

Mara froze, her breath catching in her throat. She hesitated for a moment, then carefully cleared away the remaining dirt with her hands. The metallic tang of blood grew stronger, making her stomach twist, but she forced herself to keep going.

What emerged from the dirt sent a chill down her spine.

It was a piece of fabric, dark and soaked through with dried blood. She pulled it free, revealing what looked like the sleeve of a coat. Her hands trembled as she tugged at it, uncovering more– a hairy arm.

Mara scrambled back, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. The arm was limp and lifeless, partially decayed. The sight made her stomach lurch, but she couldn't look away.

"Oh my God," she whispered, her voice trembling.

She covered her mouth, her mind racing. Who was this person? What happened to them? And why were they buried here, so close to the hut?

Her gaze darted toward the small wooden house in the clearing. That man. He had to know something. Why else would he be living here, in the middle of nowhere, with blood trails leading straight to his doorstep?

Mara's fingers tightened into fists, her fear slowly giving way to anger. If he thought she'd just walk away from this, he was wrong.

But first, she needed proof.

She grabbed her camera from her bag, her fingers fumbling as she powered it on. The lens focused on the gruesome discovery, and she snapped picture after picture, her breaths shallow and quick.

This was it. This was the story.

But the weight of what she had found pressed heavily on her chest. Whoever this person was, they deserved justice. And Mara was determined to find out the truth—no matter how dangerous it might be.