Page 9 of His Problem Alpha
His growl vibrates through me, straight to my core, and I whimper before I can stop myself. My body is responding to his, omega to alpha, need to provision. Almost to years of hating each other, and now none of it matters. My body doesn’t care that I can’t stand him.
“Devon?” His voice is rough, strained, barely recognizable. “What’s happening?”
I try to speak, but another wave of heat crashes over me, and all that comes out is a broken moan. I curl in on myself, trembling, overwhelmed.
“Heat,” I finally manage to gasp out. “Suppressants… failed.”
Alex takes a step back, his expression a war between concern and something darker, more primal. “I’ll call someone. An ambulance. Or Lawson—”
“No!” The word comes out sharper than I intended, fueled by panic. “No ambulance. No Lawson. No one can… see me like this.”
“Devon, you need help. This isn’t—”
“I know what I need!” I snap, a brief flash of my usual self breaking through the haze of heat. “I was trying to get to a clinic.”
Alex runs a hand through his hair, his movements jerky, agitated. He’s keeping his distance, staying as far away as the narrow hallway allows. He’s trying to be respectful. My chest tightens painfully at the thought.
“You wouldn’t have made it down the stairs,” he says, his voice tight with restraint. “Look at you. You can barely stand.”
“I don’t need your commentary,” I hiss, trying to push myself up and failing. “Just… help me up.”
His scent spikes, sharp with alarm. “And then what? I put you in a car, smelling like this? Do you have any idea what that would do to me? To any alpha on the street?” He turns back toward his room, and panic seizes me. The thought of him leaving, even for a moment, is unbearable. My hand shoots out before my brain can stop it, grabbing his ankle with desperate strength.
“Don’t,” I gasp. “Don’t leave me.”
Alex freezes, looking down at where my hand clutches his ankle. His scent spikes again, filling the hallway with the heady musk of aroused alpha. I can see the effect my heat is having on him—the rigid set of his shoulders, the tension in his jaw, the visible bulge straining against the fly of his jeans.
“Devon,” he says, my name a warning. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
But I do. God help me, I do. The logical part of my brain, the part that remembers our hatred, is screaming at me to let go, to maintain whatever shred of dignity I have left. But that voice is drowning under the flood of heat and need and pure, animal instinct.
I need an alpha. I needthisalpha. My body has already decided.
“Please,” I whisper, the word torn from me against my will. “It hurts.”
Something flickers in Alex’s eyes—compassion, maybe, or understanding. He crouches down beside me, close but not touching, his scent wrapping around me like a physical caress.
“A clinic might not be able to help at this stage,” he says quietly. “Emergency suppressants don’t work once full heat has set in. They might just put you in a heat room to ride it out alone.”
The thought of being locked in a sterile room makes me whimper. I want to be alone—I always want to be alone—but not like that. Not for this.
“What do you want me to do, Devon?” Alex asks, his voice gentle but firm. “Tell me what you need.”
What I need is him. His hands on my skin. His body over mine, in mine. His cock filling the emptiness that’s tearing me apart. I should be horrified that I want Alex—my nemesis, the bane of my existence—but all I can feel is this desperate, aching need.
“Help me,” I whisper, the words scraping my throat raw. “Just… help me through this.”
Alex’s eyes darken, his scent growing heavier, more potent. “Do you understand what you’re asking? What that would mean?”
I nod, unable to form words as another wave of heat washes over me. My back arches involuntarily, a broken sound escaping me.
“I need to hear you say it,” Alex insists, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through me. “I need to know this is what you want. That this isn’t just the heat talking.”
It is the heat talking. But it’s also me. The me that’s noticed the way his hands move over his equipment with careful precision. The me that’s cataloged the exact shade of green in his eyes. The me that’s been fighting this attraction for over a year under the guise of hatred.
His gaze locks on mine, a mix of shock and something else I can’t name, and a voice I don’t recognize—my own—rasps out the words that will ruin everything.
“I hate you… but you have to help me.”
