Page 28 of Rebound My Alpha
"It doesn't," I say.
"I started drawing because I couldn't stop," he murmurs, the anger burning out of his voice. "First night back, my hands just kept making your face. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't call you. I just...I know it doesn't fix it. I know I should've texted. I know I fucked it up."
He looks at me. His dark eyes are bright, wet, and he looks pissed about it. He blinks rapidly, his mouth pressed into a hard line.
"I didn't know how to do both. Be there for them, and be anything to you. So I picked the thing I knew." He gives a small, defeated one-shouldered shrug. That shrug hurts more than any of the words.
My anger rears its head. It’s a familiar shield, and I grab it with both hands.
"You could have texted me," I snap, my voice sharp but wavering. "One word. 'Emergency.' 'Family.' Anything. Instead, you let me wake up alone and think I was—"
I bite my tongue.Nothing.The word is right there, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction. I won't let him see exactly how deep the knife went.
But he knows. I see it in the way his face tightens.
"I know," he whispers.
I look down at the sketchbook. At my own face, drawn with a softness I didn't know I possessed.
I snap the book shut and press my palm flat against the cover. My hands are steady now. I don't know how. I consider texting Grandma Ruth—she’d tell me I’m a dumbass and to either forgive him or key his bike.
I don't reach for my phone.
I take a step. Not toward the door, but toward Knox. I’ve never chosen the clean, easy route when the complicated, messy one is standing right in front of me.
"Okay," I say, my voice rough. "So now what?"
Knox’s face does something I’ve never seen. The cocky alpha mask drops completely. Every ounce of swagger evaporates, leaving behind a man who looks utterly terrified, raw, and waiting.
He doesn't answer. But he shifts his weight, leaning just a fraction of an inch closer to me. My arms drop, the book clutched tightly in my right hand. The bite on my neck throbs with heat. I don't know what the fuck we're doing, but I'm not leaving.
Knox
Ishould say something. I’m Knox fucking Rivera—I always have a line. But I’m standing in my living room with the confession still stuck in my throat, and I’ve got nothing. The joke won’t come. The smirk is dead. Twenty-six years of dodging and charming and never looking back, and I'm just stalled.
Benji’s face is doing something I’ve never seen. The sarcasm is offline. He lets go of his armor—and the book; they hit the floor with a soft thud. He’s looking at me, open and terrified and waiting. The waiting is what gets me. Benji Rowe doesn’t wait for anyone. He walks away. He slams doors. He texts something cutting and blocks your number. He doesn’t stand in your apartment like you might be worth sticking around for.
I take a step. I can feel the heat coming off his body, smell him without the anger and the adrenaline masking it. Just Benji. Warm and sharp, the mate bond humming between us like a tattoo machine against my ribs.
I lift my right hand. The one that holds the ink. The one that’s been steady on every surface it’s ever touched. It’s shaking. A visible fucking tremor in my fingers that I can’t hide, and Benjitracks it. The embarrassment almost makes me shove my hand in my pocket and crack a joke about dinner.
I hold it out instead.
"Can I touch you?"
The words come out quiet. Honest. I’ve never asked. Every time before, I took what was offered or gave what was demanded. But the confession emptied the tank. There’s no cocky left. Just me, a shaking hand, and a question.
Benji looks at my hand. Then at my face. His mouth opens, and I can literally see the reflex fire, the comeback loading on his tongue, but it dies. He reaches out, wraps his fingers around my wrist, and guides my palm down to the warm skin above his jeans. Right on his hip. The exact spot I drew on him in the shop. The breath catches in his throat. He doesn't say a word, just tells me exactly where he wants me.Here. Stay here.
I lean in and kiss him. It’s the first time our mouths meet that isn’t a fucking collision. No teeth, no fighting for control. Just his lips and mine, his breath hitching, the claiming bite sitting right at the edge of my vision. I’m terrified. There’s nothing to hide behind in a kiss this gentle.
Benji bites my lower lip. Hard enough that I taste copper. The old Knox would grin, say "There he is," and flip the switch to rough. But I look into his eyes. They’re scared. The tenderness is too much, and teeth are the only language he trusts.
"Yeah," I murmur against his mouth. "I know."
His fist closes in my shirt, knuckles white, pulling me in and bracing at the same time. I let him. We stumble toward the bedroom, Benji walking backward, dragging me by the collar. He stops in the hallway just to bite my neck.
"Your apartment smells like a gym," he mutters against my pulse.
