Page 49 of Pin My Alpha
Mine. The word doesn’t hit like a punch anymore. It just settles, a solid weight in my chest.
“I want to know what this is,” he says, his voice quiet but steady. “When we both choose it.”
Every alpha instinct I possess is on its feet, screaming bad advice. Get him on the bed. Put your hands on him. Show him how much you want him. But he’s not asking me to take. He’s asking if I can be trusted with what he’s offering.
My throat is dry. “You don’t have to do anything,” I say, and my voice comes out rough.
His mouth twists. “That isn’t what I said.”
“I know.” I force my hands to stay loose at my sides. “I heard you.”
He watches me, his expression unreadable. “Did you?”
“Yeah.” I take a slow breath. “You’re asking me to be here with you. No games, no bullshit. Just… choosing.”
His gaze flicks away, down to the nest of my shirts and blankets he made without even realizing it. I drag a hand over my jaw. “Sorry. I’m not saying it right.”
“You’re saying it like an old man.”
“I am an old man.”
“Don’t get cocky.” He finally looks back at me. “I’m not good at this part.”
“Neither am I.”
“You own a bar. You talk to people for a living.”
“I pour drinks and tell guys when they’ve had enough. It’s a pretty specific skill set.”
That gets the barest hint of a smile out of him before it vanishes. He swallows. “I don’t want you to treat me like I’m going to break.”
“I don’t.”
“Declan.”
“I don’t,” I repeat, taking one careful step closer. The air in the room is thick with his scent—sandalwood and chocolate, soft with sleep—braided into the cedar and whiskey of mine. It just smells like us. “I know you’re not fragile. You’ve made that painfully clear.”
“Good.”
“But I’m not going to be another guy who takes what you give and acts like that means he owns you.”
His entire body goes still. It’s not a big reaction, but his jaw tightens and his fingers clench around the towel.
“You don’t,” he says, his voice flat.
“I know.”
He just blinks at me, like the answer wasn’t what he was braced for.
“And that’s not me agreeing to some rule just to get you in my bed,” I say. “You don’t owe me a thing. Not for the room, not for the clothes.” I gesture vaguely at the nest. “Not for that.”
A flush creeps up his neck. “It wasn’t half my laundry.”
“Right. A third.” A small smile pulls at my mouth. “I’m just trying to make a point.”
“You’re being an asshole about it.”
“That’s how you know I’m serious.”
