Page 33 of His Problem Alpha
"Eat anyway. You need the energy."
I take a bite to appease him, but my stomach immediately clenches in protest. The buttery richness I usually love tastes like ash. I set the toast down, trying to hide my grimace.
"What time's the meeting?" he asks, leaning against the counter, watching me with those green eyes that see way too much.
"Ten." I glance at my watch. "I should get going soon."
He nods, then steps forward, crowding me against the counter. Before I can process what he’s doing, he’s tilting my head up, his lips finding mine in a soft, lingering kiss. It's gentle, almost unbearably tender, and for a second I forget how to breathe.
"For luck," he murmurs against my mouth.
He pulls back, his eyes dark, pupils huge. Then he runs his nose along my jawline—deliberately scent-marking me. My knees go weak. So much for that rule.
"Alex," I protest weakly, even as I tilt my head to give him better access.
"Hmm?" His lips brush the sensitive spot below my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. "Problem?"
Yes. A thousand problems. Starting with the fact that I’m supposed to be leaving for a meeting, not melting into a puddle because my roommate-with-benefits is scent-marking me in our kitchen like I belong to him.
"I have to go," I manage, pushing gently at his chest.
He steps back, but his eyes stay on me, intense and possessive. "Come straight home after. I want to hear how it went."
Home. The word echoes in my head as I grab my portfolio and head out the door. When did this apartment become home? When did Alex become the person I come home to?
As I step onto the subway, I can't stop thinking about what happened three nights ago. I’d woken up around 2 a.m., my skin feeling too tight, a familiar, deep ache building low in my belly. It wasn’t a full heat—I wasn't due for months—but a mini-cycle, a shitty hormonal fluctuation that always left me restless and cramping and desperately needy.
I’d tried to hide it, carefully slipping out of his bed, planning to ride it out with a heating pad and some mindless scrolling in the bathroom. But Alex had known. Of course he had. He’d followed me, his alpha senses honed in on my distress before I’d even fully registered it myself.
I was curled up on the bathmat, pressing my fists into my lower abdomen, when the door creaked open.
"Devon," he'd said, his voice rough with sleep but his eyes sharp and alert in the dim light. "Why didn't you wake me?"
"It's nothing," I'd insisted, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. "Just a mini-cycle. I can handle it."
He'd shaken his head, stepping into the small space and crouching in front of me. "Let me help."
I’d expected him to push me against the wall, to fuck the discomfort out of me. It’s what we did. Our arrangement was practical, physical. Instead, he’d gathered me into his arms witha gentleness that stunned me and guided me back to bed. He’d laid me down, his movements careful, deliberate.
"What are you doing?" I'd asked, completely thrown by this departure from our usual script.
"Taking care of you," he'd said, his voice a low rumble.
And he had. He’d wrapped himself around me, his broad chest a warm wall against my back, one arm holding me close while his other hand settled on my stomach. His palm was a steady, grounding weight, his fingers rubbing slow, soothing circles where the cramps were worst. His scent—coffee, leather, that deep, earthy alpha smell—had enveloped me, a calming blanket over the restless, anxious energy buzzing under my skin.
He hadn't tried to turn it sexual. He hadn't slid his hand lower, hadn't whispered dirty things in my ear. He’d just held me, his voice a quiet murmur against my temple as he talked about nothing in particular—a new mixing technique he was trying, some obscure band he thought I’d hate, the plot of a dumb action movie he’d watched. His hands had stayed gentle, his presence a solid anchor, until the cramps subsided and I’d fallen asleep in his arms.
It wasn't him pinning me to the wall or bending me over the couch. It was his palm rubbing circles on my cramping stomach, his lips pressed against my temple, his voice in my ear until I fell asleep. It was care. Tenderness. The kind I'd convinced myself I didn't need from anyone, especially not from him. And what terrified me most wasn't just wanting more of it—it was realizing I'd never had anyone care for me like that before.
The subway lurches, jolting me back to the present. My stop is next. I straighten my jacket, check my reflection in the window, and try to shove the memory away. This meeting is everything. I can't afford to be distracted.
---
"Devon, these are exceptional." Richard Shaw leans back in his leather chair with a soft creak, studying the mockups I've spread across his massive mahogany desk. The faint smell of expensive cologne and coffee hangs in the air. "You've captured exactly what we're trying to convey with the rebrand."
I feel so relieved I could melt into the floor. "I'm glad you think so, Mr. Shaw."
"Richard, please." He smiles, and the expression transforms his usually stern face into something warmer. "Alissa was right about you. You have a unique perspective that's refreshing in this industry."
