Page 68 of Pin My Alpha
Shay flinches.
It’s not a startle. It’s a full-body recoil, violent and absolute. He stumbles back a step, arms wrapping around his middle ashis shoulders hunch to his ears. His eyes are wide and blank, staring at a spot somewhere over my shoulder. He’s not here anymore.
The anger vanishes, leaving me cold and sick. My palm stings, a distant throb. The echo of my hand hitting the wood rings in my ears. All I can see is him, staring through me, gone.
And I’m the one who did it. I can’t take it back.
Declan
He doesn’t yell. If he’d yell, I could take it. I’d stand here and let him tear me apart, and I’d deserve every word. But he’s just… still.
His arms are crossed so tight over his stomach I can see the white of his knuckles. Shoulders hiked up to his ears, jaw locked. He’s staring at a spot on the wall over my shoulder like he’s trying to burn a hole through it, an escape route only he can see.
“Shay.” My voice comes out too low, more of a growl than his name.
He flinches. It’s barely a twitch of his shoulder, but I see it, and it feels like I’ve been kicked in the chest.
He finally looks at me, and his eyes are flat. Empty. There’s none of the smart-mouthed omega who spent an hour last week redoing my specials board because my handwriting was a “personal affront.”
“Don’t,” he says. The word is barely a breath.
My hand is still pressed flat on the bar where I slammed it down. I snatch it back like it’s been burned. “I’m sorry.”
He just shakes his head, a short, sharp motion.
“I wasn’t trying to scare you.”
“Right.” A thin, ugly sound that might be a laugh escapes him. “You just forgot I was here.”
That shuts me up.
The bar is a mess around us. Empty glasses, a few crumpled napkins. Some of the gold confetti from the relaunch party is still stuck in the grooves of the bar top, catching the light. We were supposed to be celebrating. We did it. The place is full again, the numbers are finally in the black. We might actually make it.
And he’s looking at me like I’m the one thing he’ll never survive.
“I would never hurt you,” I say, and the words sound hollow and stupid as soon as they’re out of my mouth.
His gaze drops to my hand, the one I just pulled back, then travels back to my face. He doesn’t have to say a thing.
Fuck. I don’t have an answer for that. I don’t have an answer for any of this. The last few weeks, I’ve been telling myself I could do this right. Be patient. Be steady. Prove I wasn’t like any of the assholes who came before. As if I could fix years of someone else’s damage just by making sure he ate dinner and giving him the good pillow.
He turns away, toward the end of the bar, and a raw panic lurches in my gut. My hand starts to lift, to reach for him, and I have to fist it at my side to stop myself. The alpha in my head roars, a stupid, possessive sound. Mine. Keep him here. Don’t let him go.
I hate that part of me right now.
“Where are you going?” I manage to ask.
He stops, his back to me. “I don’t know.”
“Shay.”
“What?” The word cracks in the quiet room, sharp and frayed.
I just stare at the back of his neck, at the tight black curls, at the claiming mark half-hidden by the collar of his shirt. Mymark. The permanent proof of the one time I let my instincts win completely, because they were screaming at me that he belonged to me.
A claim is supposed to mean safety. Mine just looks like a bruise I keep pressing on.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. It’s all I’ve got.
