Page 56 of Pin My Alpha
The low purr in Shay’s chest cuts off like a switch was flipped. He goes rigid under me, a sudden, sharp tension that travels right through my own body.
“Hey,” I say softly. “It’s okay.”
He doesn’t seem to hear me. He reaches for the phone, his hand not quite steady. The screen casts a blue light over his face, erasing all the warmth that was there a second ago. His scent sours, the rich chocolate note cut through with something sharp, like burnt sugar and fear. It hits the back of my throat.
“Shay? What is it?”
He just stares at the screen, his thumb hovering over the notification.
Then, so quiet I can barely hear it, he says, “It’s my mom.”
Shay
Mom.
The name glows on the nightstand, and just like that, the warmth is gone. Thirty seconds ago I was boneless under Declan’s arm, wrecked and stupid with it, his breath slow against my shoulder. Now every muscle I own is pulled tight.
“Shay?” His voice is a low rumble behind me, thick with sleep. “You want me to get that?”
“No.” The word is out of my mouth before I’ve even thought it, sharp and final.
Behind me, he goes still. His arm, which was heavy and solid against my ribs, tenses up. That’s all. But it’s enough.
The phone buzzes again, insistent.
I snatch it off the table. “I have to take this,” I manage, my throat tight.
He doesn’t say anything, just slides his arm away. The loss of his body heat is immediate. I untangle myself from the sheets, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and grabbing for the blanket to wrap around my waist. My legs feel unsteady. My whole body is still humming, sore and thoroughly wrecked in away that felt incredible an hour ago and feels humiliating now. For a second, I have to put a hand against the wall to keep from swaying.
The mattress shifts as Declan starts to sit up.
“I’m fine,” I bite out, not looking at him.
He stops moving. The silence that follows is worse than if he’d argued. His scent sharpens—just a little. A bitter note under the whiskey and woodsmoke that says I’ve hurt him.
Of course. He just sits there in the mess of blankets and his own shirts that I twisted into a nest and watches me. My phone feels like a bomb in my hand.
I escape to the kitchen, leaning against the counter. The cool laminate is a shock against my bare back. He left the light on over the stove, and it casts a soft yellow glow on a neat stack of vinyl records, on the small ceramic bowl by the door where he drops his keys, on the coffee maker that’s already set for the morning.
It’s not a home. It’s a closing argument. Proof of a life that works. A business downstairs, a routine, a pantry that probably has things other than instant ramen in it. An alpha who can pin you to the mattress, tell you he loves you while he’s knotted inside you, and make your stupid omega body believe every word.
The phone vibrates in my fist again. I stab the screen to answer.
“Mom.”
“Oh, thank God.” Her breath comes out in a wet, hiccuping rush. “Baby, I’m so sorry, I know it’s late, but I didn’t know who else to call.”
My eyes slide shut. Of course she didn’t.
“Are you okay?”
“I don’t know,” she says, her voice wet. “I mean, I’m okay. I’m just—he’s being weird.”
I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders. It smells like Declan. Cedar and clean cotton, a deep note of whiskey underneath. The scent fills my head, and my whole body goes stupidly soft, reaching for it.
I hate that it feels like safety.
“Weird how?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. It’s always the same answer.
