Page 11 of Pin My Alpha
He stirs. Just a shift of his weight, a soft exhale. His forehead creases for a second before smoothing out again.
As I turn to go, my eyes catch on his wrist, lying palm-up on the sheet. There’s a mark there. A dark, perfect impression of my own teeth against his skin.
I remember doing it—earlier in the night, when his hand was braced on the headboard next to me and I couldn’t reach his mouth. That hot, coppery taste under my tongue when I bit down. A desperate need to hold on to something, to prove this wasn’t just him taking and me giving in.
My throat tightens. I get out of the bedroom before I do something stupid, like get back in that bed and ask him what any of this means.
The apartment is quiet. It’s a real apartment, not a dorm room. There’s a folded blanket on the arm of the couch, a bowl of bananas on the kitchen counter, a single coffee mug in the sink. The ordinary, settled reality of it all is somehow worse than the sex. This is a life. His life. I walked in, got myself marked, and now I’m sneaking out in his shirt.
A voice in my head that sounds a lot like my mother starts whispering about what it means when you let an alpha put a claim on you. You don’t get to be the one who leaves. I shut it up with a quick, vicious thought: I’m not her. I’m not going to waitby the phone sobbing into a chipped mug. I have standards. Low ones, maybe, but standards.
I swallow hard and keep moving.
The stairs down to the bar are narrow and steep. The third one groans, and I freeze, my hand clamping down on the railing.
Below me, silence. No sound from the bedroom, no footsteps. No low voice calling my name.
He’s not coming after me.
I wait anyway, counting my own heartbeats in the quiet. Nothing. A laugh bubbles up in my throat, but it feels too much like a sob, so I choke it back down and take the rest of the stairs.
The bar is dark. Chairs are flipped upside down on the tables, the neon signs are off, and a faint blue-grey light filters through the front windows. The long, polished bar runs the length of the room, completely empty.
Last night I stood right there and told him it was just one night. No strings. The memory burns worse than the bite on my neck.
I push open the back door. The cold hits so hard my teeth click together. It’s the kind of damp, pre-dawn chill that seeps right into your bones. Instinctively, I pull the Henley tighter around me and immediately hate myself for it.
The alley is all wet pavement and the sour smell of last night’s beer. Underneath it, there’s him. On me. His scent is in my hair, on my skin, sunk deep into the collar of this goddamn shirt.
I start walking. The mark on my neck is a low, steady throb, a compass needle trying to pull me back around. I fight it, and the walking gets faster.
Soon I’m running. Not jogging. A clumsy, panicked sprint through the quiet streets. My jeans are stiff, the Henley is huge and flapping around me, and his scent billows with every fucking step. I feel like the whole world can smell my mistake. Somewhere in the back of my mind I’m already drafting atext: So I got claimed. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. I just need a spreadsheet and maybe a branding overhaul.
I skid to a stop at a crosswalk, chest heaving, the little red hand flashing at me. Getting flattened by a garbage truck would be a new low, even for me.
My own hands are shaking. Before I can stop myself, I lift the collar of his shirt to my face and take a deep breath. Cedar, cotton, whiskey. Him. A raw, furious sound gets caught in my throat. The pull isn’t just in my head. It’s a physical drag in my gut, a rope hauling me back toward Byrne’s.
I yank the shirt away from my face like it’s hot. “This isn’t happening,” I tell the empty street.
The light changes. I run again.
By the time I make it to the apartment, my lungs burn and my legs are shaking so hard I can barely stand. I fumble the key twice before the lock clicks open. Inside, it’s dark and still. Soren’s bedroom door is closed, a soft blue glow spilling under it—he’s probably asleep with his phone still in his hand. Thank God.
I creep upstairs, skipping the bathroom. No mirrors. Not yet. I don’t need to see it to know what’s there.
My room is exactly how I left it. The bed is made with sharp corners. My laptop is closed on the desk next to the planner I use because if it’s not written down, it’s not real. Everything is in its place. It’s supposed to be my fortress, but right now it just feels like a stage.
I lean back against the closed door. I should take this shirt off. I should probably burn it.
Instead, I cross the room, sit on the edge of the bed, and then fall back without even taking off my jeans. I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, breathing him in.
My phone vibrates on the desk. A single buzz, then another, then a whole series of them. The group chat. Of course. Theycan sense a disturbance in the force from miles away. If I don’t answer, Jude will be up here kicking my door in, with Milo wringing his hands behind him and Benji looking ready to commit a felony on my behalf. Except Jude and Milo and Benji are mated and moved out, so really it’s just Soren who’d knock politely and offer tea, and I don’t know which is worse.
I drag myself up and grab it. Forty-seven messages.
Jude:SHAY. WHERE ARE YOU.
Benji:If Bar Daddy killed him I call his sneakers.
