Page 22 of Bully Alpha's Pregnant Mate

“Don’t call me that,” I say, my voice softer than I intend. “You don’t get to use that nickname. Only my family calls me Izzy.”

He nods, and there’s a hint of sadness in his gray eyes, like he understands what I really mean. “Alright. But the apology stands.”

For a moment, I’m not sure what to say. The person in front of me is a far cry from the arrogant, careless guy I remember. Maybe he’s really changed. But part of me is wary, wondering if this is just another side of the same guy who could turn and hurt me without warning.

“I don’t know what you expect from me, Alec,” I say finally, focusing on the bread in my hands rather than meeting his eyes. “Forgiveness? A fresh start?”

He takes a deep breath and says, “I’m not asking for forgiveness, and I’m definitely not expecting it. I just want you to know I’m here, and that I’ll keep showing up. And maybe, eventually, you’ll believe that.”

It’s a good answer, but I still don’t know how to let my guard down around him. I can’t shake the memories, the taunting, the years of feeling like I was the invisible girl in a room he ruled. But maybe… maybe he’s right. Maybe he’s changed, and maybe I need to give myself the chance to see that.

I clear my throat, taking another sip of coffee to hide my hesitation. “Alright, then,” I say, trying to keep my tone light, though the tension in the air makes it difficult. “Consider this your chance. But don’t get too comfortable. I still reserve the right to hold things against you.”

He laughs, a low, genuine sound that somehow eases the tension. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

For the first time, it feels like the walls between us are a little thinner, like there’s a sliver of common ground. Maybe, just maybe, it’s possible to rebuild something on it.

There’s a shift, a small one, in the days after our conversation at the bookstore. Nothing grand or obvious, just little things. Like how Alec always brings an extra coffee to the shop without asking, or how he’s suddenly a regular at the bookstore, stopping by “to check in,” though he doesn’t say on what. He doesn’t overdo it, and he doesn’t push, just shows up with a casual smile, some story from his day, or a question about the book he’s pretending to read.

Each time he shows up, there’s this weird energy between us. At first, I ignore it, chalking it up to a misplaced sense of nostalgia or just my brain adjusting to seeing him as something other than my teenage nightmare. But it’s not so simple. There’s this awareness simmering, quiet but insistent. I’ll feel his eyes on me while I’m talking, or he’ll lean close to show me something, brushing his arm against mine, and suddenly, my breath is hitching. It’s infuriating.

One night, after the bookstore closes, I get home to find him in the kitchen with his elbows on the counter, deep in thought. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, revealing tanned, muscled forearms, and I hate myself a little for noticing.

“Rough day?” I ask, setting down my bag.

He glances up, his expression softening as he takes me in. “Nothing I can’t handle. You?” His eyes linger on mine, and I feel this pulse of warmth that I promptly ignore.

“Another day of alphabetizing shelves and dodging questions about our so-called ‘honeymoon phase,’” I explain, rolling my eyes.

His grin is wicked. “People are curious. Can you blame them?”

“I blame you,” I counter, moving past him to grab a glass of water. I can feel him watching me as I do, his gaze heavier than it has any right to be. There’s this thrill in his stare, like he’s genuinely… interested.

“Me?” he asks, all innocent. “What did I do?”

I shoot him a look over my shoulder, trying to ignore the way my heart trips at his tone. “Besides barge into my workplace and act like some charming alpha prince every day since I’ve started?”

He crosses his arms, still smiling. “I think you like the attention. Or at least, you don’t hate it as much as you let on.”

I roll my eyes, but heat creeps up my neck. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Isadora,” he says with atsksound, “you don’t have to keep fighting me on this.”

I freeze, meeting his gaze. His eyes are steady, serious, and it’s like he’s trying to tell me something he can’t quite put into words. I’m suddenly hyper-aware of how close we’re standing, of the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air. It’s woodsy and masculine, and it sends a bolt of heat straight between my legs.

“Who’s fighting?” I say, trying to brush it off with a smirk. But it feels flimsy, and I know he sees right through it.

Days go by, and he continues to surprise me. Alec, the guy who used to ignore me for sport, now remembers my coffeeorder, holds doors open, and—most disturbingly—knows exactly how to make me laugh.

He’s there in the mornings, always making just enough coffee for two. At night, he’ll knock on my door and casually invite me to watch whatever show he’s put on, claiming it’s just background noise for “all the alpha paperwork” he’s supposedly doing.

One evening, we’re in the living room, watching some mindless reality television. I’m wrapped in a blanket, trying to ignore how good he looks with that relaxed, easygoing smirk on his face. Out of nowhere, he nudges my foot with his, a soft, playful touch that’s almost too familiar.

“You’re actually watching this?” he asks, sounding impressed.

I roll my eyes. “It’s distracting. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh, I think I get it,” he replies, his gaze dropping to my mouth for a split second before he looks back at the screen. “You just need something to look at. Lucky for you, I’m here.”

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