Page 17 of Pin My Alpha
The bell overhead gives a single, sharp jangle that goes straight down my spine. My head snaps up. My entire body tenses.
It’s Shay.
He’s standing just inside the doorway, holding a black binder against his chest. His curls are perfect, his expression is a careful, neutral mask, and he’s wearing my Henley.
It hangs loose on his frame, the sleeves shoved up to his elbows. The collar is wide enough that I can see the dark, angry red of the claiming bite on his neck. My mark.
For a long, silent moment, the air leaves my lungs. He looks furious. He looks beautiful. He looks like he belongs in my shirt.
A deep, possessive hum starts in my chest, a current of pure, stupid instinct that wants to cross the room and drag him upstairs. Mine. The thought isn’t a word; it’s a physical command. My hands grip the edge of the bar, the wood digging into my palms.
“Jesus, Declan,” Tessa mutters.
Diego takes one look from me to Shay, his eyes wide. He starts backing away toward the kitchen.
“Hey,” he says to Shay, his voice suddenly very soft. “I’m just gonna… I have to check on the limes.”
Shay’s eyes lock on mine. “Good plan.”
Diego is gone before the kitchen door swings shut.
Tessa doesn’t move. She just leans against the back bar, arms crossed, watching.
Shay walks toward me, and every step is deliberate. He smells like my apartment, like my sheets. His scent is sharp with anger and the low, electric hum of the bond threading under my skin. It wraps around me, and something in my chest that’s been clenched tight since I woke up alone finally, painfully, lets go.
He’s here.
He stops at the bar and puts the binder down between us. The slap of plastic on wood echoes in the quiet room. He keeps both hands flat on the cover.
“You have a problem,” he says. Not a question.
I glance at the landlord’s letter. “I’m aware.”
“No.” His gaze is flat. “You’re aware of a rent increase. Your problem is that your brand is a ghost, your social media is a joke, and your target demographic is aging out. The regulars keep you afloat, but nobody under twenty-five comes here unless they’re dragged. That’s not a business plan, Declan. It’s a slow death.”
Each sentence is a clean, sharp jab. This is the Shay I’ve seen across the bar, the one who talks his friends down from bad decisions with the cold precision of a surgeon. He’s using that voice on me now, and it’s the only thing holding him together. I can see it in the rigid line of his shoulders, the way his knuckles are white against the black binder.
He taps the cover. “I can fix it.”
Tessa pushes off the counter.
All I can manage is, “You can?”
“I’m a marketing senior,” he says, his voice tight with irritation. “Not an ornamental plant.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
The word has teeth. I almost smile.
“What’s in the binder?” Tessa asks, her voice quiet.
Shay looks at her, and just for a second, the tension in his jaw eases. “A market audit, competitor analysis, and a three-phase relaunch proposal. I, uh. I haven’t slept.”
My throat closes.
He ran from my bed, terrified. He went home in my shirt with my bite on his neck, and he spent the night building me a goddamn rescue plan.
