Page 32 of His Problem Alpha
Eventually, I pull out carefully and roll to the side. Devon collapses onto his stomach, his face turned away. I think he's going to leave—to follow our rule—and my chest aches. I feel triumphant seeing him like this, wrecked because of me. But underneath that is something softer, more terrifying—the need to take care of him, to keep him safe.
He turns his head, his eyes finding mine in the dim light. The vulnerability there makes my breath catch. Without thinking, I reach for him, pulling him against my chest. He comes willingly, his body fitting against mine like it was made to be there.
"This breaks rule number two," he murmurs against my skin, but makes no move to leave.
"Just for tonight," I say, the lie bitter on my tongue. I already know I'll want this tomorrow night. And the night after. I'll want to fall asleep with his heartbeat against mine every single night. "We'll do better tomorrow."
He laughs softly, the sound vibrating against my chest. "Sure we will."
I know I need to insist on our boundaries. Instead, I press a kiss to the top of his head, breathing in the scent of his hair. "Go to sleep, Devon."
He makes a small, contented sound and relaxes against me. Within minutes, his breathing evens out into sleep. I lie awake, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart, feeling the warm weight of him against me.
For the first time since I stood at Ethan's grave, the constant, grinding noise of guilt is silent. In its place is a peace so profound it terrifies me. I know I should push him away, maintain the distance that keeps people safe from me. But I can't let go.
Instead, I pull him closer, burying my face in his hair. The scent of him fills my lungs. Something dangerous unfurls in my chest. Something that feels like hope.
I fall asleep with him in my arms, and for once, I don't dream of sirens or blood or the phone call that changed everything. I just sleep, deep and dreamless, holding him like he's something precious. Something worth keeping.
We wake up tangled in my sheets, his head on my chest, and for a split second before the panic hits, it feels like this is where he's always supposed to have been.
Devon
Perfect. The most important meeting of my freelance career, and my stomach was staging a full-scale mutiny.
I swallow hard, the acid burn in my throat making me wince as I grip the cold porcelain of the bathroom sink. My reflection stares back, pale and clammy, with dark circles under my eyes that even my most expensive concealer couldn’t hide. I splash cold water on my face and try to breathe through another wave of nausea that feels like it’s trying to turn me inside out.
"You good in there?" Alex's voice comes through the door, laced with a concern that’s become scarily familiar. "You've been in there for twenty minutes."
"Fine," I call back, my voice tight and unconvincing even to my own ears. "Just... nervous about the meeting."
There's a pause, then the soft thud of his forehead resting against the door. "You're going to kill it. Richard Shaw would be an idiot not to hire you."
The simple confidence in his voice sends a warm rush through my chest. Three weeks ago, he was unplugging my equipment and I was screaming at him in the hallway. Now he's standing outside the bathroom door, giving me pep talks like he actually gives a shit. Like it's the most natural thing in the world.
I open the door and find him leaning against the frame, a mug of coffee in his outstretched hand. He’s wearing a pair of low-slung gray sweatpants and nothing else, his dark hair a chaotic mess from sleep. I see him standing there—casual, rumpled, so fucking domestic—and my heart does a stupid little flip.
"You look like shit," he says, his eyes soft with a concern that completely negates the words.
"Thanks. Just what every omega wants to hear before a career-defining meeting." I take the coffee, our fingers brushing. A tiny jolt of electricity shoots up my arm from the contact. Pathetic.
He frowns, leaning closer to scent me, his nose just inches from my neck. "You smell off."
I step back quickly, my heart thumping. "It's just stress."
"You sure?" His hand comes up to cup my face, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone. His touch is warm and steady. "You've been tired all week."
"I'm fine," I insist, even as I lean into his hand for a split second. "Just haven't been sleeping well."
It’s a complete lie. I’ve been sleeping better than I have in years, wrapped in his arms every single night, his steady breathing chasing away my usual anxieties. Our “no sleeping over” rule shattered on the very first night and we never bothered to pick up the pieces.
Alex doesn't look convinced, but he lets it drop. "Eat something before you go," he says, heading toward the kitchen. "I made toast."
I follow him, my eyes cataloging the changes in our apartment.Ourapartment. When the hell did that happen? His blackhoodie is draped over my desk chair. My stack of design books has migrated to his side of the coffee table. His expensive headphones are sitting next to my sketchpad. His coffee mug next to mine in the sink. When did we stop drawing lines between what’s his and what’s mine? Everything’s all mixed together, just like we are now.
The toast sits on a plate on the counter. It's just toast, but seeing it there, already buttered exactly how I like it... damn. The gesture hits me harder than it should. A few weeks ago, we were fighting over whose turn it was to buy coffee. Now he’s making me breakfast and remembering how I like my toast.
"I'm not hungry," I say, even as he pushes the plate toward me.
