Page 4 of Rebound My Alpha
"Last one?" Mars asks without looking up.
"Last one." I toss the paper towel. "He'll be back in a month wanting me to cover that up."
Mars grunts.
My sketchbook is sitting on the counter where I left it between clients. It's open to the page I was doodling on during my break. Flash designs mostly—a couple of traditional roses, a dagger, some geometric filler. But in the margins, there's a face. The same one I keep coming back to. Sharp jaw, scattered freckles, a ring in the nostril, an expression that saysfuck you. I've drawn it from a few different angles over the past couple of weeks. It’s a good face to draw. Interesting angles. Artistic interest, that's all. I flip past it to a geometric piece and leave the book open.
I wash my hands at the back sink, scrub the ink off my knuckles, and check my phone. A text from Jake about a party.The gym group chat going off. And a KnotMe notification. A match.
I open the app. The omega has no face pic, just an angled shot—sharp collarbones, the edge of a jaw, a nose ring. The bio is empty except for his designation and “Don’t waste my time.” I like him already.
I tap the thread. He messaged first.
Him: You look like the kind of alpha who thinks he's god's gift. Are you?
I grin at my phone.
Me: Depends who's asking.
Him: Someone who's been disappointed by every alpha on this app. Convince me you won't be a waste of my night.
Nothey. Notwhat are you looking for. He came out swinging, and my cock gives an interested twitch. The polite ones who swipe right on my tattoos and ask if they hurt don't do it for me anymore. This one's got his fists up. I want to see what happens when I swing back.
Me: I don't convince. I show up and let my hands do the work.
Him: Bold. Last guy who talked like that came in two minutes and asked if it was good for me.
I laugh out loud. Mars glances over and goes right back to his paperwork.
Me: Sounds like you need someone who knows what he's doing with his mouth.
Him: Sounds like you need to stop running yours and prove it.
Me: Tell me where you want it and I'll show you exactly how it works.
Him: Big talk. I've heard big talk before. Usually from alphas who finish before I've even started enjoying myself.
Me: Then you've been fucking the wrong alphas.
Him: Obviously. That's why I'm on this app talking to you instead of doing something useful with my night.
The messages keep coming, each one meaner and more explicit than the last. He tells me what he wants, and he's not polite about it. What he'd do if I got him on his knees. What I'd better be ready to do if I show up. How long it's been since anyone made him come hard enough to shut his brain off, and how he doubts I'm the one who can do it. I tell him exactly how I'd handle every single thing on that list, and my jeans are getting uncomfortable in a way that's going to be a problem if I don't get off this stool soon.
He doesn't soften. No emoji, no backing off to signal he's just playing around. He wants to be fucked like he's angry about something, and I want to be the one who fucks the anger out of him.
Him: I want to know if your mouth works as well as your ego.
Me: Come find out.
Him: You come to me. I don't chase.
There's a flash—half a second—where something about the way he writes pings a circuit in the back of my head. The rhythm, the meanness wrapped in humor, the absolute refusal to give me an inch. It reminds me of—but the thought doesn't finish forming. Whoever this omega is, he's here and he's tonight, and the one from a few months back is a ghost.
Me: Give me an address.
A pause. Longer than his other replies. Then just:
Him: [address]
