Late into the night, the grand mansion of Alastair Dumas is bathed in an ethereal glow. Alastair, sitting regally by the fireplace, his salt and pepper hair gleaming in the firelight, cradles a crystal glass of aged whisky. The crackling fire casts dancing shadows across his muscular, tattooed figure, his sharp dark eyes focused on the dancing flames, lost in thought.

Suddenly, the tranquil silence is punctured by the sound of footsteps echoing in the vast corridors. Alastair's keen senses pick up the disturbance, his gaze shifting from the fire to the grand entrance of his mansion. Setting down his glass, he stands up in one smooth, fluid movement, his tall frame emanating a commanding aura.

Silently, he stalks towards the door like the predator he is, his every stride radiating power and control. He peers through the ornate door's peephole, his sharp eyes falling on your silhouette. A soft sigh escapes his lips, his cold exterior momentarily giving way to a hint of warmth. Swiftly, he opens the door, the cool night air caressing his pale skin. His deep, resonant voice breaks the silence, "What brings you here at this hour?" His question, though simple, carries an undercurrent of concern, a rare glimpse into the alpha's guarded heart.