Page 37 of Pin My Alpha
My phone buzzes in my pocket. And again. Jude, uploading the photos from today. There’ll be a dozen shots of him hanging off Rhys like a very loud, very pleased limpet. One of Callum lifting something heavy while Milo looks at him like he invented gravity. And in the background of at least one, Knox will be staring at Benji like he’s the only thing in the room worth looking at.
My friends are disgusting. And happy. The two thoughts grate against each other.
Declan turns the lock. The click echoes. He nods toward the stairs behind the bar. “You hungry or not?”
“I had a cookie.”
“Milo’s?”
“Obviously. I have standards.”
“So you had sugar,” he says. “Not food. Come on.”
It’s not an alpha command, not a rumble under the words meant to make my omega listen. It’s just…a fact. And my body wants to obey before my brain can start making a list of all the reasons this is a bad idea.
The list is long. The man whose bed I ran from is offering me food in his apartment. But my stomach gives a low, traitorous grumble.
Pasta wins. I hate it.
“Fine,” I say, hiking my bag higher on my shoulder. “But if you pull out a box of craft singles and call it a meal, I’m leaving.”
“Noted.”
“I’m a consultant. We have standards.”
“I’m pretty sure you made that title up this afternoon.”
“And you can’t prove it.”
The third stair creaks. I remember freezing right on this spot, swallowed by his Henley in the dark, the fresh bite on my neckscreaming at me to run. Tonight, he’s a few steps ahead, flipping on a lamp as we enter the apartment. It casts a low, warm light over the same kitchen counter I leaned against that first night, pretending I wasn’t about to climb into his bed. No harsh overheads. Nothing that feels like an interrogation.
I know this place now. I know the creak of the floorboards and the way the bathroom door sticks. I know where he keeps his coffee mugs. That knowledge should not feel like a stone in my chest, heavy and warm.
“Sorry it’s not much,” Declan says, dropping his keys in a bowl by the door.
I look around. It’s a real kitchen. Small, but there are knives in a block and spices by the stove and a clean dish towel hanging from the oven handle. His fridge probably has actual food in it, not just beer, half a lime, and a jar of olives that might be sentient.
“This is nicer than my kitchen,” I say.
“That sounds like a low bar.”
“It is. The cabinet under our sink smells like regret.”
Declan huffs a quiet laugh, and my stomach does something deeply unprofessional. He opens the fridge and pulls out a container of sauce, a bag of spinach, a wedge of parmesan. “Pasta okay?”
I lean against the counter, crossing my arms. “What’s the catch?”
He glances over his shoulder. “It’s pasta, Shay.”
“Right. And after the pasta, I quit my job, drop out of school, and spend my days picking out curtains?”
The words hang in the air, sharp and ugly. His hands go still for a second on the counter. There’s a dusting of flour over one of his knuckles.
I force a shrug, my face hot. “It was a joke.”
“I know.” He turns his back to me, running the tap to fill a pot. His voice is even. “You finish school. You keep your job if you want it. You work on the bar because you offered and you’re good at it. That’s it.”
That’s it. The words land with a familiar thud. I’ve heard them before. Just until you get back on your feet, baby. That’s it. Then the groceries had to be what he liked. Then he got tired of paying for things. Then my mom was packing a suitcase with one busted wheel while I sat on the floor, pretending I couldn’t hear her crying.
