Page 83 of Pin My Alpha
That flinch from earlier hits me again, out of nowhere.
Not when I slammed my hand on the bar. That was bad enough, the way he recoiled from the sound, like the noise had hands. Like I was someone he had to brace for.
No. Worse was after.
When he was tied to me, slick and shaking, and I reached for him—and he flinched.
My throat closes up.
I put the glass down.
“Fuck.”
The word comes out rough, torn.
I grab the spray bottle and start wiping down the counter. The same stretch I already cleaned. The same stretch Shay was bent over earlier tonight, his palms flat on the wood, his voice wrecked.
I stop. The rag hangs from my hand.
There’s a faint smudge near the edge. Could be anything. A drink ring, a streak from a sleeve.
But my brain supplies the memory anyway.
Shay’s fingers curled against the bar.
The smell of his fear.
My own voice, asking if he wanted me to stop.
His answer. And me, taking that answer as permission to forget every other damn thing I should’ve known.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Don’t be nice,” he’d said.
Like kindness was ever the problem. Like I heard anything other than an excuse to stop trying.
I was angry. I was hurt. I wanted him close. I wanted him to stop looking at me like I’d ruined everything, even though I had.
So I used the one thing that always works.
My body. My size. My knot.
I turned the bond between us into a goddamn weapon because I didn't know how to just stand there and say, I’m scared, too.
The spray bottle slips from my hand, thumping onto the rubber mat below.
For a second, I just stand there. Then I bend down, pick it up, and put it back where it goes.
Because that’s what I do. I put things back where they belong.
By the time I’m done, the chairs are upside down on the tables, the till is counted, and the floors are swept. Every lock is checked.
It should feel like relief.
Instead, it feels like sealing up a tomb.
I climb the stairs.
