Page 35 of His Problem Alpha
- Fatigue
- Heightened sense of smell
- Emotional sensitivity
- Missed cycle
- Mini-cycles or hormone fluctuations
Check. Check. Check. My heart pounds so hard I can feel the frantic beat in my throat. This can't be happening. We were careful. Mostly. Except for that first time, during the raw, desperate haze of my heat. And maybe a few times since, when we got carried away and forgot everything but the need to be closer.
Fuck.
I need to get home. I need a test. I need to think.
The subway ride is a blur. My mind is a chaotic storm of possibilities, each one more terrifying than the last. A baby. Alex's baby. A tiny person with his intense green eyes and my sarcastic mouth. A permanent, undeniable link between us that would shatter the flimsy pretense of our "practical arrangement" forever. Not with Alex. Not when we're just pretending this isn't real. Not when I've spent my whole life avoiding exactly this kind of permanent connection.
By the time I reach our building, I can't even sort out what I'm feeling. I'm scared shitless. This can't be happening. And yet... fuck. Some tiny part of me actually feels... hopeful? What the hell is wrong with me?
I unlock the door with shaking hands. The apartment hits me with a wall of garlic and herbs, rich and savory, mingling with the lingering scent of Alex—coffee and that earthy alpha smell I've come to associate with home. Any other day, the aroma would make my mouth water. Today, it hits my hypersensitive nose like a physical assault.
Alex is in the kitchen, his back to me. He's wearing headphones, the expensive ones I’m not supposed to touch, and he's humming softly, stirring something on the stove. The scene is perfect in a way that hurts—my surly, brooding alpha, cookingdinner for us after my big meeting, lost in his own world of sound.
I open my mouth to call out to him, to say his name, but the smell intensifies. My stomach heaves. I clap a hand over my mouth and bolt for the bathroom, the portfolio I was holding so proudly just moments ago clattering to the floor.
I barely make it to the toilet before I'm violently ill again.
The heaving is brutal, leaving me empty and trembling. I slump against the cool tile wall, my cheek pressed against the porcelain, sweat plastering my hair to my forehead. I can hear the muffled bass of Alex's music through the closed door, a low, steady thrum that feels like it’s coming from another universe. He can’t hear me. He doesn’t know.
I’m completely alone with this.
The pieces are all there, a horrifying mosaic spelling out a truth I can’t ignore anymore. The sickness. The exhaustion. Richard Shaw’s words about fatherhood hitting me like a freight train. The barista’s casual comment. It’s not stress. It’s not the flu.
A baby. A tiny life growing inside me, half me, half Alex. The ultimate complication.
What will he do when he finds out? Will he run? Will he stay out of some misplaced sense of obligation, his resentment a poison between us? The thought of either option makes me feel sick all over again.
I close my eyes, picturing his face just before I left this morning. The concern in his eyes. The softness of his kiss. The possessive way he scented me. Is any of that real enough to survive this?
My hand, slick with cold sweat, rests on my still-flat stomach. A single, terrifying thought cuts through the nausea, sharp and clear and undeniable.
Oh, fuck.
Alex
The sound of retching from the bathroom rips through the quiet of the apartment, a raw, ugly noise that short-circuits my brain. My half-finished dinner is forgotten on the counter. I’m moving before I’ve even processed it, my heart slamming against my ribs. “Devon?”
No answer except another round of violent heaving.
“Devon?” I knock once, sharp and urgent, my knuckles rapping against the wood. “I’m coming in.”
I don’t wait for permission. The door isn’t locked—a mistake Devon never makes—and that alone sends a primal alarm bell screaming through my head.
He’s on his knees on the bathmat, forehead pressed against the porcelain rim of the toilet, his shoulders shaking with the force of his sickness. The acrid smell of vomit fills the small space, but underneath it is something else. Something different about his usual citrus-and-sunshine scent. It’s… richer. Deeper.My alpha brain registers the change before I can consciously identify it, a low hum of recognition deep in my bones.
“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice low as I crouch beside him, my knees cracking on the cold tile. “What’s going on?”
He flinches when my hand lands on his back, but doesn’t pull away. His skin is clammy and cool through the thin fabric of his t-shirt.
