Page 52 of Nursing the Alpha
My chest still aches. I can’t express fast enough.
A sound tore from my throat—half growl, half prayer—as I typed back without hesitation.
Me:
Unlock your door.
I’m coming up.
This time, I didn’t wait for permission.
The moment I stepped into the apartment building, the air changed.
Flynn’s scent lingered in the narrow hallway—sweet and rich, threaded through with something almost floral. My chest tightened at the familiar pull of it, and I balled my hands into fists at my sides.
Each step up the stairs felt heavier than the last, like my body was bracing for something I couldn’t name.
This was reckless.
He hadn’t said I could come. Not really.
But he hadn’t said no either.
And after weeks of watching from across the street, of waiting, hoping, aching—god, I couldn’t stay away. Not now. Not when I’d finally heard from him.
My boots were soundless on the worn steps. First floor. Second. Third.
By the time I reached his landing, my pulse was hammering so hard it drowned out everything else.
His door stood at the end of the hall, a glimmer of golden light seeping out from the gap beneath it.
My breath came shallow, my palms damp as I crossed the last few feet.
And nearly knocked it over.
A glass bottle.
Sitting neatly on the mat in front of his door.
Condensation clung to the sides where the milk’s warmth met the cooler air of the hallway.
The door remained firmly locked. I tested it.
My chest twisted sharply with not quite disappointment, not quite relief.
This was his answer.
No to me.
But yes to this.
I crouched slowly, fingers trembling as I curled them around the warm glass. The faint heat of his body still clung to it, and my throat worked as I brought it to my lips.
The first taste nearly undid me.
Sweet. Creamy. So achingly familiar.
I groaned low in my chest and tilted the bottle higher, drinking deep, bracing my hand against the doorframe to keep myself upright.
