Page 88 of My Shy Alpha

His rules are simple. Familiar.

Men have uncontrollable, vital needs. Needs that need to be met, especially by women. Women are naturally gifted at comfort, and men are designed to protect women - including from themselves.

As a woman, if I withhold affection from a man, I’m disrespectful. If I withhold sex, I’m torturous. Abusive, even. Men can’t control their urges, shouldn’t I know that?

I do know that. I’m 23 and no stranger to sex.

So why am I having a heaving, desperate anxiety attack in the bathroom, lying to my boyfriend that I’m getting myself cleaned up before he can have me? Shouldn’t Steven be the one upset by my neglect?

I’m so scared of what’s happening to me. Steven cares so much about me, ensuring he always knows where I am, who I’m with, and when I’ll come home. He doesn’t like when anyone looks at me, not even Amy - we kissed once, after all. He’s the jealous type, but like he says, that’s the strongest type of love.

But my love for him is waning instead of growing the closer we become - and the more sex he needs. Am I a cruel, heartless bitch? Aren’t I supposed to revel in the glory of his dick? Even if I don’t enjoy sex, shouldn’t I live to witness his pleasure? Isn’t that my purpose?

No matter how closely I follow the rules, my body simply can’t.

I can’t do it. I can’t.

I’m 24.

Dad died eight days ago. After escaping into my childhood bedroom for a moment alone, I lift my exhausted forehead from my doorframe, squaring out my shoulders to enter the hall. I just finished spoon-feeding Mom, well aware she’s lost the will to exist. Nothing I can do will change that. Mom always said her heart would die with Dad’s, and I can see it. She hasn’t died yet, but the light in her eyes is already gone. I’m living the dark, nauseating last stretch of her life, looming over me even in my dreams.

Dishes clank in the kitchen, and I wince - Steven’s here, doing the dishes. He came over to help, so I hate the anger I feel blasting through my chest for potentially waking my mom, tightening my already sore jaw.

As I enter the living room, Steven’s sturdy back steels me. He’s familiar, and I’m losing two out of four people closest to me. I need his old stability. The Steven I met who settled my shoulders.

Burrowing me into his embrace, Steven runs his hands down my back until they land on my waist. I expect words of comfort. Crave it.

But Steven chuckles, drawing me in for a kiss. When he pulls away, he stops by my ear, detailing how he wants me to pleasure him tonight.

As he draws back, I gape at him. Can he even see me? I’m drooping like a tattered, overused piece of cloth, ready to shred with the slightest tug in the wrong direction.

He’s smiling, but I finally see it; there’s no playfulness behind his eyes. Those desires were a command.

I jolt away, and Steven’s mask breaks. The sun in his hair snuffs out, darkening his expression until he’s unrecognizable. I back away on instinct, the back of my legs bumping into the coffee table, but it only makes Steven angrier. Rage, disgust, and desperation cloud his eyes, knowing he’s about to lose everything he trained in me. I can feel him clinging to my soul, squeezing it tight.

But he squeezed one too many times. The wild animal in me - everything wrong about me - breaks from her shackles, shattering the rules Steven built as she leaps.

I act in ways I never have. Wild, unrestrained, impolite ways. I tear at my hair, screaming despite knowing Mom is - well, was - asleep. Steven grasps at the air to catch me, claiming he wants to soothe me, but I rip myself away. Smack his hands off me. I don’t recognize my voice anymore. Shrill, pleading screeches, begging Steven, God, and no one in particular to give me one moment to breathe. Can’t everyone see I’m suffocating?

All Steven can see is that I’ve lost my mind over “one little comment” rather than the mountain he buried my soul under. When he calls me crazy, that unfamiliar woman screams in my voice.

“Get the fuck out! I never want to see you again!”

He storms from my parents’ cottage, slamming the door behind him. I collapse onto the floor, gripping my aching chest as I sob. I believe it’s finally over.

It wasn’t.

33

“Aliya!”

Someone grabs my shoulder, and I scream.

I’m zapped back into my awareness by their hands, panting like I’ve been jogging. I don’t know where I am.

No, wait. I’m 29. I’m in Greenfield Forest, somewhere near Noah’s cabin.

Noah holds my cheeks, his eyes wider than ever. “It’s me– Just me. I-I’m sorry, I didn’t know how you’d like to be pulled out of it, but...”

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