Page 49 of His Problem Alpha
“He thinks he’s cursed,” I say, the realization hitting me like a punch to the gut. “He thinks loving him is dangerous.”
“Ever since the accident, he self-destructs the second he gets close to happiness,” Finn confirms, his eyes sad. “He thinks... he thinks loving people kills them. He genuinely believes he’s dangerous to anyone he cares about.”
I feel this wave of grief for a brother I never met. Then anger, hot and sharp, at the asshole who changed everything. I think of Alex, carrying this burden for years. Believing he doesn’t deserve happiness. Believing his love is toxic. It explains everything—his brooding silence, his reluctance to form connections, the way he threw himself into helping me during my heat but then tried to pretend it meant nothing.
“He’s not pushing me away because he doesn’t care,” I say, more to myself than to Finn. “He’s pushing me away because he does care. Because he’s trying to protect me from himself.”
Finn nods, something like hope flickering in his eyes. “You really do know him, don’t you?”
“I’m trying to,” I say, my voice rough with emotion. “But he makes it so damn hard.”
“He does,” Finn agrees with a sad smile. “He always has. Even before... before Ethan. He was never an easy person to love. But he was worth it.”
“He still is,” I say fiercely, surprising myself with the conviction in my voice. “He’s worth fighting for.”
Finn studies me for a long moment, something like approval warming his expression. “You know, I came here ready to tell you to run. To save yourself from the Alex Matthews self-destruction cycle. But now…” He shakes his head, a small smile playing at his lips. “Look, I had to trysomething,” he says, his voice raw. “I can’t watch him waste his entire life punishing himself. Maybe you’re exactly what he needs.”
“I don’t know about that,” I say honestly. “But I know I’m not giving up on him. Not now. Not when I finally understand what he's been carrying all this time.”
“Good,” Finn says simply. “He deserves someone who won’t give up on him. God knows he’s given up on himself.”
As I walk home from the coffee shop, my mind is a storm of emotions. I feel grief for the brother he lost. I’m angry at the drunk driver who destroyed his life. And god, I’m so frustrated that he keeps punishing himself. But underneath it all, a fierce, protective determination surprises me with its intensity.
He wasn’t a monster. He wasn’t even an asshole. He was a survivor standing guard at a grave, trying to push away anyone who got close enough to lay down flowers. He thought love was a weapon, and he’d spent the last six years pointing it at his own heart.
And I was standing right in the line of fire.
Devon
The first thing I see is the open duffel bag on his unmade bed. The second is the worn leather jacket—the one he always wears, the one that smells of him, of ozone and old books and safety—folded neatly on top.
“What are you doing?”
My voice is a thin, high wire in the quiet of the room. My heart starts to hammer, a frantic fist against my ribs so hard I’m sure he can hear it.
He doesn’t look up. His hands don’t even pause as he methodically folds a dark t-shirt and places it in the bag. He moves like a machine, all his warmth and life gone, replaced by a cold, mechanical purpose.
“Alex.” I take a step into his room—our room, where just days ago we were a tangle of limbs in these sheets, his mouth on my throat, his hands branding my skin. “Alex, look at me.”
He won’t. His shoulders are rigid, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumps beneath his skin. The scent rolling off him is allwrong—sharp with distress and the sour tang of old, unearthed grief. It makes my nose itch, my chest ache.
“I know about Ethan,” I say, the words a desperate gamble, tumbling out before I can stop them.
His hands freeze over a pair of jeans. For a full second, he’s perfectly still, a statue carved from misery. Then, slowly, he turns. His eyes are hollowed out, dark pits in a face that’s gone chalk-white with shock.
“What did you say?” His voice is a ghost, a rough whisper like he’s been gargling sand.
I swallow, my throat suddenly desert-dry. “I know about your brother. The accident. I talked to Finn.”
Something shifts in his face, the shock curdling into a cold, terrible anger. “You had no right.”
“I had every right,” I fire back, my own anger a welcome shield against the fear. “You’ve been a ghost for two days. You won’t talk to me, won’t even look at me. What the hell was I supposed to do?”
“You were supposed to leave it alone!” he roars, the sudden volume a physical force that makes me flinch. “You were supposed to take the hint and stay the fuck away from me!”
“Is that what you want?” I demand, stepping closer, crossing the invisible line he’s drawn between us. “For me to stay away? Because I don’t believe you.”
He whips back to his packing, his movements jerky and aggressive now, stuffing clothes into the bag without care. “What you believe doesn’t matter. I’m leaving.”
