Page 39 of My Unhinged Alphas
My chest tightens painfully. The burn in my scar flares, a phantom ache that follows me like a memory I can’t outrun. I press my palm against the wall just to keep myself upright, breathing hard as the reality crashes down on me.
I touched her. I put my hands on her. Lifted her. Pinned her against the wall. Kissed her until I couldn’t breathe. Pressed my cock between her thighs like a man who had forgotten what restraint even means.
I almost made her come. God, I almost?—
I squeeze my eyes shut, shame flooding so hot through my veins I feel sick.
I shouldn’t have touched her. She’s a civilian. A variable. A complication I should treat with distance, caution, discipline. Instead, the moment she didn’t recoil from my scar—when she looked at me like I was still…whole—I snapped like a trap that’s been primed too long.
It was her. Only her. Only the way she looked at me.
And that… that’s what broke me.
I push off the wall and keep moving, jaw clenched so tightly it aches. I head down the stairs, through the dim corridor, out toward the coldest part of the warehouse. Somewhere I can breathe. Somewhere she isn’t.
Somewhere I can punish myself the way I deserve.
I should’ve known better. I always know better. The Brotherhood taught me control. Taught me discipline. Taught me the cost of weakness, of desire, of wanting anything I shouldn’t have.
But the second her body arched into mine, the second she moaned my name, the second she didn’t flinch at my face?—
I forgot everything.
I rub a hand over my scar until the skin protests, a harsh reminder of what happens when I trust myself too much. Pain grounds me. Pain is familiar. Pain makes sense.
Wanting her does not.
Attraction is a liability. Losing control is unforgivable. And what I did…
I don’t have a word strong enough for it.
I stop walking and brace both hands on the nearest metal beam, hanging my head as my breath comes in harsh, broken pulls.
I should stay away entirely. I should ask Knox to handle her instead. But the thought of Knox near her—near her body, near her scent, near the warmth I just had my hands on—makes something ugly twist inside my chest.
I slam my palm against the beam, welcoming the sharp sting. “How could you touch her like that?” I whisper to myself. My voice cracks, low and furious. “How could you lose control?”
The truth settles like a weight in my lungs.
Because she looked at me like a man, not a monster. Because she touched me like she wanted me. Because she said I was attractive. Because no one has in years. And because for one impossible moment, I believed her.
I let myself want her. And that alone is enough reason to punish myself until the urge dies.
My breathing still hasn’t evened out by the time I reach the far corridor—one of the colder ones, where the concrete never seems to warm and the overhead lights flicker just enough to keep the shadows moving at the edges of my vision.
Good. I deserve the discomfort.
I lean back against the wall, its surface cold enough to cut through the heat still burning in my blood. My hand drifts instinctively to the small cross inked over my heart—a simple design, little more than two clean lines intersecting. It sits directly over the scarred skin beneath, a reminder of everything I should be and everything I fail to be.
My fingertips brush the ink lightly. A penance gesture. A grounding ritual. A quiet acknowledgement of the vows I keep failing.
I close my eyes and inhale slowly, trying to force order back into the chaos I left in that room with her.
I’m still tracing the cross when footsteps echo at the end of the hallway.
I look up and see a man. He’s not one of us. He’s a Shepherd. I know him vaguely.
I straighten as he approaches—a tall man in all black, gloved hands, expression neutral in the way only cleaners can manage. He carries the faint scent of bleach and smoke, the chemical signature of the Brotherhood’s aftermath work.
