Page 16 of Freeing My Alpha

Noah traces my eyes. Instinct stifles my breath as he analyzes me.

For a second, I don’t recognize him. All his emotions have been washed away.

Then he taps on my side. “I need to stand.”

I hop off his lap immediately, my eyes wide. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

He gives me a soft smile before throwing his shirt collar over his head, disappearing into the fabric. “Don’t be sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong, sweet Omega.”

When he pulls his head through the collar, his back remains to me. Noah hurriedly throws on the boxers and worn black jeans from his clean clothes pile beside the sink, his agitation rising by the second in our bond. Then he reaches for the door handle.

Fuck, I hit a major sore spot. With my experience, there’s no mistaking what just happened; Noah is in the throes of hyperarousal from PTSD, his emergency alert systems thrusting into overdrive. I’ve described it to Jenny as sprinting in place, giving me urgency to scream or run, but terrifying me that I’ll hurt myself out of panic from how heavily the fear wracks my heart until I’m begging for it all to end already. I doubt Noah wants to be confined in this small, humid bathroom.

I stick close to Noah, but not too close, allowing him space to breathe. I didn’t expect this reaction, and I’m not sure he expected it either. I haven’t breached the subject of Noah’s monster since he disclosed a tiny piece of trauma in his den, but I know he’s worked on this in Prolonged Exposure therapy—as in, his trauma is massive.

He’s worked hard in therapy, I’m sure, but I also know sometimes it’s too raw to fully work on. Or even if it’s worked on, trauma never truly disappears. Every time there’s another trigger, there’s a potential setback.

I just hope Noah will be okay.

Squeezing my fingers over and over again to self-soothe, I follow Noah past his living room. I’ve never seen him this triggered before, so I’m not sure what to expect. What type of symptoms his PTSD presents itself as. It’s eerie: I genuinely can’t feel anything from his side of our bond, so maybe he’s dissociating.

But when we reach Noah’s kitchen, he pulls out a barstool for me. I track him across the kitchen as he rolls his shoulders out, but it’s almost like I’m watching a silent movie of his usual morning routine—like we weren’t just talking, at all. After a few quick circles of his arms, he opens a drawer at the end of his kitchen cabinets and fetches a black pen and a white lined notepad.

Noah sets the notepad on the countertop beside me, leaning heavily into the rich brown wooden block. After a few silent seconds, I swallow hard, unable to stifle my worries.

Noah glances at me in passing, but he does a double-take when he sees my face. “Hey, it’s okay. Really.”

He drops his pen, reaching across the countertop with an open palm. I place my hand in his. He smiles softly, but there’s a visible, cavernous crack in his stoic mask, a horrendous pain seeping through the sudden grayish exhaustion around his eyes. It tears at my stomach, acid stinging my throat.

Noah runs his thumb over my knuckles, softening his voice. “Do you not believe me? If I seem upset, I’m not upset at you. None of this is your fault. It’s— It’s Barrett’s.”

I swallow hard. Noah’s the one who can’t say Steven’s name, opting for using Steven’s last name, “Barrett,” instead. What if I’m triggering Noah worse than I realize?

Wait, that’s right: we were supposed to be talking about Noah’s abuser now, not mine. Did Noah just deflect me?

I know it’s not the same as Steven’s deflections, but I can’t calm my racing heart: in the past, deflections were my warning sign. If I challenged Steven’s avoidance of an important topic, I’d be the one to pay for it.

This is where I’d usually follow Steven’s cue to keep myself safe, but this isn’t Steven. Noah is holding my hand, looking into my eyes for answers. I have to give him a chance.

“That’s not how I saw what just happened.” I settle onto the barstool, keeping my tone gentle. “I brought up something sensitive, and I’m worried I triggered you badly.”

“Oh... Oh.” Noah bites the end of his pen, his brows furrowing. After a few seconds of staring into the distance, Noah drops the pen to the countertop with a massive sigh. “No, you were fine. I just don’t know how to solve that either. I don’t know what to say that’s not a huge fucking disappointment that might make you lose faith in me because there’s—” His breath hitches. Noah swallows hard like his throat ran dry. “There’s not a single thing I can fucking do about that situation, but— But I know I’m good at tracking, so please don’t think I can’t help you, it’s just— This one’s—” Noah smashes his face in his palms, breathing hard into them. “This one’s different.”

My heart burns. Noah’s emotions are slowly returning to my awareness, and they’re too much to bear. What the hell happened that feels so unfixable to my powerful mate?

Noah takes a deep, shuddering breath as his wolf frantically paces across our bond. “But at least I haven’t tried to track down Barrett yet. There’s still hope there. I swear, there’s hope.”

I’m nauseous. “You want to track him? And then what?”

He shrugs, keeping his forehead in his palms. “File that restraining order, for one.”

My heart leaps. I mentioned my rejected restraining order to Noah one single time.

Revealing bloodshot, weary eyes, Noah tilts his head, blinking at the blank lined paper between us. “But if he’s a Lycan, I can do a lot more.”

My stomach growls, and Noah lifts an eyebrow. He breaks into a smile, but I shake my head, unable to laugh.

“I don’t like this. I don’t know what you’re thinking, and I’m starting to get triggered, myself.”

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