Page 44 of His Problem Alpha
"I called him," I say, the words scraping my throat raw. "I'm the reason he was on that road at that time."
"Alex—"
"If I hadn't called, he would still be alive." It’s the truth I’ve carried for 2,190 days, a weight that has crushed the very marrow from my bones. "He died because of me."
Finn leans forward, his eyes intense. "He died because some asshole got behind the wheel drunk. The same thing could have happened if he was driving to get ice cream, or coming home from a movie."
"But it didn't," I insist, my voice cracking. "It happened because I called him."
Finn is quiet for a long moment, the silence stretching between us. When he speaks again, his voice is soft, and it’s the softness that undoes me. "Did you know he was excited when you called?"
I look up, my throat tight. "What?"
"Your mom told me," Finn continues, his voice thick with memory. "After the funeral. She said when you called, he was so happy that you needed him. That you trusted him enough to ask for help."
Something inside me breaks. The dam I've spent years building, reinforcing with guilt and self-hatred, crumbles to dust. "No," I whisper.
"He was singing in the car, Alex," Finn says, his eyes bright with unshed tears. "Your mom heard him leave. He was singing because he was happy to be the one you called. The last thing he did was smile because you needed him."
Each word tears through me like a bullet. There's a flash of a memory I didn't know I had—Ethan, grinning, tossing me the keys to his beat-up sedan, telling me I could borrow it anytime. The image is so clear, so full of life, and it’s followed immediately by the crushing weight of what Finn just said.
He was happy. He was singing. His last moments were filled with joy—joy at helping me.
I can’t bear knowing this. He died because he loved me. Because he wanted to help me. That's what killed him. The very best part of him was destroyed by the very worst part of me.
"Alex, breathe," Finn says, his voice sharp with alarm. "You're hyperventilating."
I can't get air. The coffee shop is spinning. The espresso machine screams like sirens. Cups clatter against saucers like breaking glass. The voices around me distort into the memory of my mother's wail when the police came to our door, a sound that has haunted every quiet moment of my life since.
"I have to go," I choke out, standing so abruptly my chair scrapes against the floor with a sound like nails on a chalkboard. "I can't—I have to go."
"Alex, wait," Finn says, reaching for my arm, but I’m already backing away. "Please, just talk to me. Let me help."
Help—just like Ethan wanted to help, and look where that got him.
"Stay away from me, Finn," I say, the words thick in my throat. "Just... stay away."
I push through the door, the bell jangling a frantic, discordant alarm. Outside, the air is no easier to breathe. My chest is a vise. My vision blurs at the edges. I walk blindly, no destination exceptaway.
Ethan was singing. He was happy to help me. The last thing he felt was joy because I needed him.
Knowing this twists like a knife in my gut. All these years, I've carried the guilt of causing his death. But this—knowing he went willingly, happily—is a thousand times worse. Because it confirms what I've always feared: loving me is a death sentence. Caring about me is a direct path to destruction.
And then it hits me, all at once—Devon. Oh god, Devon.
I see him in my mind, a flash of him laughing at some stupid joke I made, his head thrown back, his eyes bright. I see him sleeping in my arms, his face soft and peaceful, his scent a comforting anchor in the dark. I've been letting him in. I've been marking him, claiming him, building something with him. Creating a connection that could destroy him just like it destroyed Ethan.
I’ve been selfish again, letting myself feel something good at the risk of someone else’s safety. The marks I left on his throat, the possessive words I growled against his skin—they weren't protection. They were a target. A bullseye for the disaster that follows me everywhere.
By the time I get home, I know what I have to do. I have to end this. I have to push him away before what happened to Ethan happens to him. Before my curse claims another victim.
I pause outside the door, my hand on the knob, steeling myself for what comes next. The scent of him hits me as soon as I enter—citrus and sunshine, now tinged with an undercurrent of concern and hurt. He's sitting on the couch, his laptop open but clearly forgotten. His eyes find mine immediately, wary and searching.
"Alex," he says, standing. "What happened? Who's Finn?"
I can't look at him. If I do, I'll break. I'll tell him everything, and he'll try to convince me it wasn't my fault, and I'll want so badly to believe him that I might give in. I might doom him, too.
"It doesn't matter," I say, my voice flat. I move past him toward my room, a desperate, cowardly escape.
