Page 3 of The Alpha's Crimson Vow

He didn’t say much. Just sat there, quietly, like he understood. At one point, he offered a soft word I don’t even remember now, and then, oddly enough, his sandwich. It was the strangest thing,but in that moment, it felt so real, so human—an act of kindness from someone who had no reason to be kind.

The world could use more people like that, I remember thinking that day. People who don’t want anything, who just… care. But the world isn’t full of people like him. The world is full of boardroom politics, endless work, and family elders who won’t let me breathe.

The thought of that janitor, the one I never saw again after that night, lingers for a moment before slipping away as I reach the elevator. A lump rises in my throat, but I swallow it down, focusing on the cold feel of the button under my finger as I press it.

I hate elevators. Being trapped in a metal box, the walls always feeling a little too close, it’s never been something I’m comfortable with. But I manage. I always do.

It’s just a few seconds.I remind myself. Still, every time without fail, there’s that flicker of unease, that quiet voice in my head whispering nerves.

As the doors begin to slide shut, a voice cuts through the stillness.

“Please, hold the door.”

The words are polite, but there’s something else about the voice that makes my hand shoot out to stop the doors without hesitation. Something familiar.

He steps into view, my eyes widening with shock at the sight before me.

The janitor.

He fills the space with a presence so commanding, so powerful, that I feel momentarily dwarfed. It makes no sense for a man like this to be a janitor. His broad shoulders nearly brush the sides of the elevator, and his dark, sharp eyes flick to minebriefly before darting away. His frame is towering, but there’s a quiet gentleness to the way he moves, like he’s acutely aware of how much space he occupies.

“Sorry, Ms. Lockhart,” he says, his voice low, almost hesitant, as though he doesn’t want to intrude. And then there’s that accent I can’t place. Both his voice and his appearance do not suit his job.

I manage a small smile. “It’s no trouble.”

He nods, stepping into the elevator, and the doors glide shut.

A part of me is thankful for his presence—at least I’m not alone in here.

My gaze flickers to him briefly. The first time I saw him, I hadn’t really taken him in—too consumed by my own whirlwind of emotions to notice much of anything. But now, for just a moment, I allow myself to really look.

His face is all sharp angles and rugged strength. He could probably be a model if he wanted, with that chiseled jaw and those steady, thoughtful eyes.

My eyes trail down to the small tag pinned to his chest, catching the name printed there.

Alex.

So that’s his name.

“Long day?” he asks, his voice breaking the silence.

I blink. “You could say that.”

He nods, as though he understands more than he lets on. “It’s always the long days that remind us to rest,” he says, his tone simple but oddly profound.

And then, just as I am forming a response, the floor beneath me jolts violently.

The lights above us flicker wildly, bathing the small elevator in a strobe of bright flashes and sharp shadows. My stomach lurches.

Alex’s eyes go wide, a look of shock crossing his face, but it doesn’t compare to the sheer terror that grips me. My hands shoot out, grasping at the cold, smooth walls of the elevator, clawing for anything solid to hold onto as the steel box around us shakes like it’s caught in an earthquake.

The elevator jerks to a sudden stop, and everything goes still.

The tiny, enclosed space is suffocating, the only sound the ragged gasp of my breathing as I collapse to the floor. My mind is spinning, my body trembling. The walls seem to close in, inch by inch, until I feel like they’re pressing against my chest, stealing the air from my lungs.

My throat tightens. My vision blurs. I can’t breathe.

Tight spaces have always been my worst nightmare, my one unshakable fear since childhood. It’s irrational, I know that, but knowing doesn’t help when the panic is this all-consuming. The memories flash through my mind—locked away in closets from being forced into stupid games of hide and seek with my cousin, the trapped feelings, the helplessness—and I feel like I’m that scared little girl all over again.

---