Page 75 of Pin My Alpha
“I need my bag,” I say.
Declan’s face tightens. “Okay.”
“I’m getting my stuff.”
“Okay.”
“And then I’m going home.”
He looks at the floor for a second. When he lifts his head again, his green eyes are wet around the edges.
“Okay,” he says again.
I should be happy. I got what I wanted. No fight, no alpha voice. He isn’t blocking the door or grabbing my wrist or trying to force me to stay, because he knows how badly my body wants him to.
But instead of relief, something raw just scrapes down the center of my chest.
I walk around him.
The bar feels wrong with the lights still on. Too bright. The dark wood has fingerprints all over it from the party. There are abandoned napkins and empty glasses, chairs shoved crooked around tables—signs of everybody having a good time while I was busy blowing up the best thing that’s happened to me in years.
I pass the booth where Jude had been hanging off Rhys’s side earlier, grinning like he’d won the lottery. Milo and Callum had shared one of those disgustingly soft looks across the table when Milo handed him a cookie. Benji had spent half the night draped over Knox, acting like his alpha’s shoulder was a piece of furniture designed specifically for his ass.
They all looked so sure.
I used to think that was pathetic.
Now I know it’s worse than pathetic.
It’s possible.
The back stairs creak under my feet. The third one, louder than the others. Declan said he’d fix it months ago. Then he said it again last week when I pointed out that customers probably didn’t want an ominous haunted-house sound every time somebody used the staff bathroom.
I pause halfway up.
He’s behind me, but not close. Far enough that I can pretend he isn’t there.
“Why are you following me?” I ask.
“I’m not.”
“You’re on the stairs.”
“You said you needed your bag.”
“I know where my bag is.”
“I know.” His voice catches. “I just… I don’t want you to think I’m letting you walk out because I don’t care.”
I turn around.
He’s one step below me, broad shoulders slumped, shirtless and barefoot on the old wood stairs. There’s a faint bite mark on his forearm—mine, almost healed now. I put that there. I marked him back. I wanted him.
For one stupid second, I want to go down a step and touch it.
“You don’t get points for caring after you fucked me like you were mad at me,” I say.
The words hit him. I see them hit. His jaw works once.
