Page 40 of His Problem Alpha
This can’t last. Nothing this good ever does. I learned that lesson when my dad walked out, when my first boyfriend cheated, when every good thing eventually fell apart.
But for now, I let myself have it. I breathe him in, memorizing the moment, storing it away for when it inevitably ends.
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“Richard Shaw called,” I say later that evening, looking up from my laptop. “He wants to expand the project. They’re adding a complete website overhaul to the rebrand.”
Alex is stirring something on the stove that smells like garlic and herbs. Sunday night cooking has become a ritual neither of us acknowledges. He turns, his expression unreadable. “That’s good, right?”
“It’s huge,” I say, unable to keep the excitement from my voice. “It means at least three more months of steady work. Maybe more if they like what I do.”
He sets the wooden spoon down with deliberate care. “You’ll be working directly with him?”
“Yeah, mostly. He wants to be hands-on with this project.” I tilt my head, studying him. The change is subtle, but I see it. The easy set of his shoulders has hardened. The air, which had been warm and fragrant with cooking garlic, suddenly feels charged, and a low, almost inaudible rumble starts in his chest. His scent, which had been calm and content, sharpens with something I’m starting to recognize: possession. “Why?”
He crosses his arms, leaning back against the counter. His jaw works like he’s chewing on words he doesn’t want to say. “He’s an alpha.”
I blink. “Yes? So are a lot of my clients.”
“He’s an unmated alpha,” Alex clarifies, his voice dropping lower. “Who clearly thinks highly of your work.”
It takes me a second to understand what he’s implying. When I do, a startled laugh escapes me. “Richard Shaw is happily married with adult children. He’s also, like, sixty.”
Alex’s eyes narrow. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means he’s not interested in me like that,” I say, incredulous. “He’s a client. A really important one.”
“I’ve seen how alphas look at talented omegas,” Alex says, his voice tight. “Like they’re something to collect. To own.”
Part of me wants to be offended. To tell him how ridiculous he’s being, that I’m a professional who doesn’t need his caveman alpha bullshit. But I can't suppress the hot, traitorous thrill that shoots through me. My pulse jumps, and I know he can hear it—his nostrils flare, his eyes darkening.
“He better not be getting ideas about you,” Alex says, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that sends heat pooling in my stomach.
“And if he is?” I ask, my voice steadier than I feel. “What would you do about it?”
Alex pushes away from the counter, crossing the kitchen in three long strides. He crowds me against the wall, not touching me yet, but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. His scent sharpens, turning spicy and rich with possessive intent that makes my knees weak.
“I’d remind him,” Alex says, his voice a low growl that vibrates through me, “exactly who you belong to.”
The feminist in me wants to bristle. I’m not property. I don’t belong to anyone. I’m an independent omega with my own career and my own life. I open my mouth to tell him exactly that.
“You,” I whisper instead, the word escaping before I can stop it. “I belong to you.”
Something flashes in his eyes—triumph, relief, hunger. His hand comes up to cup my face, his thumb brushing over my bottom lip. “Say it again.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. This is dangerous territory. This isn’t our arrangement. This is something else entirely, something with teeth and claws that could tear me apart if I let it.
“I belong to you,” I repeat, my voice stronger this time. “Only you.”
He makes a sound—half growl, half groan—before his mouth crashes down on mine. The kiss is possessive, claiming, his tongue pushing past my lips like he’s staking territory. His hands grip my hips, pulling me against him, and I can feel how hard he is already, his cock pressing insistently against my stomach.
“Bedroom,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Now.”
He doesn’t wait for my answer, just takes my hand and pulls me down the hallway. His room (our room now, really) is bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. He kicks the door shut behind us and turns to me, his eyes dark and intent.
“Take off your clothes,” he commands, his voice a low rumble that makes me shiver.
I comply, my fingers fumbling with buttons and zippers. He watches me, his gaze heavy and hot on my skin as I strip. When I’m naked, he’s still fully clothed, and the power imbalance makes my breath catch.
