Page 20 of Match My Alpha
"What's this one called?" His voice is thick and sleepy.
My apartment doesn't smell like just me anymore. It smells like us—pine and sugar and sex, a scent that only exists when we're together. I never want it to go back to the way it was.
"He doesn't have a name yet," I say.
His mouth curves. "Gerald." He strokes the leaf one more time. "He looks like a Gerald."
I smile. "Gerald it is."
I climb back into bed. He immediately tucks himself against my chest, his curls brushing my collarbone. The bite mark peeks out above the collar of my shirt, red and raw and mine. I wrap my arm around him, listening to him breathe, and realize this is the first time in years this place actually feels like home.
Milo
Iwake up in a bed that smells like sex and something woodsy I'm already addicted to. For a split second, my brain stalls out completely. Then the memories hit me like a freight train, and my entire body flushes.
Callum's bed. Callum's apartment. Callum's teeth marks on my neck. The bite throbs when I shift, sending a sharp pulse through my body that toes the line between pain and absolute bliss. I'm wearing his shirt and nothing else. My legs are tangled in the sheets, and every muscle in my body aches in the best, most specific ways possible.
Somewhere in the apartment, a cabinet clicks shut. A mug clinks against a counter. He's humming some tuneless, off-key melody, making coffee like this is a normal Wednesday morning and not the morning after he knotted me, bit me, and confessed he's been my anonymous KnotMe match for a week.
I reach across the mattress. His side is still indented, the sheets warm. I press my face into his pillow and inhale. Clean skin, that darker, heavier alpha scent I still don't have a name for. My cock stirs against my thigh. Apparently, my body hasdecided Callum's scent is a direct line to my dick now. That's fine. That's a completely normal physiological response to have about the man currently making me coffee while I lie in his bed with his come dried on my thighs.
I grab my phone off the nightstand. Seventeen notifications light up the screen. I know before I even unlock it that the group chat is a disaster.
Jude: MILO REYES Jude: IT HAS BEEN 12 HOURS Jude: DID YOU MEET THE ANONYMOUS ALPHA OR DID YOU GET MURDERED Jude: IF YOU GOT MURDERED BLINK TWICE Benji: he can't blink twice if he's dead, that's the whole point of being murdered Jude: THEN WHO WILL I ROAST ABOUT THEIR KNOTME PROFILE??? Benji: if he was good in bed i don't want to hear about it. if he was bad i DEFINITELY don't want to hear about it Shay: ?? Jude: MILO. ANSWER YOUR PHONE. I NEED TO KNOW IF ANONYMOUS ALPHA IS A KEEPER OR IF I NEED TO KEY HIS CAR
The gap between what they think happened and what actually went down makes my chest tight. I type out three different responses and delete them all.It was goodfeels insultingly inadequate.I found my fated mate and he's Ava's brother and he bit me last night and also he's been catfishing me on KnotMefeels like a lot for a group chat at eight in the morning.
I settle on:it was really good. like REALLY good. i'll tell you guys later ok?I add a thumbs-up emoji that feels pathetically insufficient, but it buys me time.
Soren texted separately. Not in the group chat, just to me.
Soren:hope you're okay. text me when you can. no details needed, just want to know you're safe??
My throat gets tight. Soren always does this. He asks if I'm safe instead of asking for the gossip, and right now that kindness hits me harder than usual. I can't tell any of them the truth yet.
i'm really good, Sor,I text back.like really really good. i'll explain soon i promise
I put the phone face-down. The kitchen sounds continue—something sizzling in a pan, Callum's terrible humming. I push myself out of bed. My body protests in half a dozen places, every ache a visceral reminder of his mouth, his hands, the stretch of his knot, the sharp-sweet slice of his teeth. I pad barefoot across the cold tile to the bathroom.
I freeze in front of the mirror. Jesus. I look thoroughly wrecked. My curls are a disaster, my lips are swollen, and the bite mark on my neck sits red and raised on my scent gland, right above the collar of his shirt. I look like I belong to someone.
I tilt my head, checking the bite from different angles. It's permanent. It's going to scar. But instead of panicking, I brush my fingertips over it and feel the bond pulse under my skin. A quiet, preening satisfaction hums in my chest.This is mine. This man chose me.
I tug the soft gray cotton of Callum's shirt down. It hits me mid-thigh, the sleeves hanging past my fingertips. My own clothes are in a heap on the bedroom floor. I should put them on. I have a library shift in two hours. I should be a functioning adult.
Instead, I stare at my reflection. I'm wearing my alpha's shirt with nothing underneath, and I'm going to walk into his kitchen exactly like this. Not because biology is steamrolling me. Because I want to see his composure crack. The old Milo would have scrambled to make himself presentable, to be easy and low-maintenance. The new Milo—the one with the throbbing bite mark and the sore thighs—wants to be a menace.
My hands are shaking. My stomach is in knots. I do it anyway.
Callum is at the stove with his back to me. He's shirtless, gray briefs riding low on his hips, muscles shifting as he pushes something around a pan with a spatula. He's ridiculously broad.The freckles I spent half the night tracing are scattered across his shoulders, and I want to bite every single one of them. He looks domestic and devastating.
"Coffee's almost—" he starts, turning around.
The sentence dies in his throat.
His whole system crashes in real time. He takes in the oversized shirt, my bare legs, and whatever his nose is picking up, because his nostrils flare and his eyes go pitch-black. His grip on the spatula tightens so hard the plastic creaks. He ignores the sizzling pan.
He sets the spatula down and crosses the kitchen with that steady, terrifyingly deliberate focus he gets, stopping just close enough that I can feel his body heat. His large hands grip the counter on either side of my hips, caging me in. He leans down until we're eye level.
