Page 30 of The Alpha Under My Bed

A bond was forever.

I sucked in a shaky, rattling breath, my chest aching with it. I wanted to go to him, to break down in his arms like I had a thousand times before.

But this time was different.

This time, there was nothing he could do.

I couldn’t un-bond.

I couldn’t take it back.

My alpha had already won.

A small, shaking sob broke free as I curled in on myself, wrapping my arms tight around my middle like I could hold the shattered pieces of myself together.

I was his now.

No matter how much I wanted to pretend otherwise.

I wasn’t sure how long I stayed there, hunched on the floor, breath coming in short, sharp bursts that didn’t feel like enough. My fingers pressed against the cold steel between my legs, as if sheer will alone could undo what had already been done.

It didn’t budge.

A tremor racked through me. I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing down the panic clawing at my throat.

I couldn’t stay here. Couldn’t let this break me.

I pushed myself upright, every motion sluggish, my limbs heavy with exhaustion. My heat had drained me, left my muscles aching with a dull, bone-deep soreness. But I went through the motions anyway.

Shower. Clothes. Pretend I could fix this.

By the time I stepped outside, the cold air slapped against my overheated skin, making me shudder. The walk to the shop felt longer than usual, each step punctuated by the dull, persistent weight between my hips—a cruel reminder of the night before.

I wasn’t ready for this.

But I needed normalcy. So I kept walking.

By the time I reached the shop, my fingers were stiff with cold, my breath curling in soft white tendrils in the morning air. The bell above the door jingled softly as I stepped inside. I exhaled shakily, letting the scent of the shop ground me—warm wood, aged paper, faint traces of perfume clinging to the air.

Familiar. Safe. Real.

The shop was quiet, the early light spilling through the front windows in soft, golden streaks. I focused on that. On routine. On the things I could still control.

Step one—flip the sign.

Step two—sort the orders.

Step three—pretend last week never happened.

The morning passed in a steady, mindless blur. I kept my hands moving—stacking receipts, filing new orders, adjusting inventory like it actually mattered. Customers came and went, their voices blending into the background hum of the shop.

I barely noticed the time slipping by until my stomach twisted sharply, a hollow ache curling deep inside me.

Lunch. Right.

I ignored it. Instead, I busied myself behind the counter, wiping down the glass display case, triple-checking the stocklist even though I already knew it by heart. Anything to keep my mind from spiraling. Anything to keep myself from thinking about?—

The bell jingled.

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