Page 31 of The Alpha Under My Bed

I turned automatically, expecting a customer. Expecting Claudia.

But it wasn’t.

It was Mal.

He stood just inside the doorway, his broad frame backlit by the pale afternoon light. His shoulders were loose, his stance deceptively relaxed, hands tucked into the pockets of his worn jacket. But his eyes—his dark, steady eyes—were already on me.

Something flickered low in my gut, warm and instinctive. Almost like relief.

I didn’t want to pick that apart too much.

Mal was safe. Mal was home. He had been a steady, unshakable presence in my life for years.

So why did it suddenly feel like I couldn’t breathe?

I set the perfume bottle down a little too hard, the glass clinking sharply against the shelf. My fingers twitched, but I forced them still, dragging my gaze away from him.

“Hey,” I muttered, voice not quite steady.

Mal didn’t answer at first. His gaze moved over me—slow, assessing, lingering for a second too long before he exhaled quietly.

“You eat yet?” His voice was steady, low, like he already knew the answer.

I blinked, caught off guard. The question felt too casual, too normal, too much like something I didn’t deserve.

I hesitated before answering, only just realizing I couldn’t remember if I’d eaten today at all. Maybe I’d grabbed something small this morning—maybe not. It felt like a lifetime ago.

“I think I had a granola bar earlier.” The words felt weak, uncertain, and I hated how they sounded coming out of my mouth.

Mal’s jaw shifted—not quite a clench, but close.

He lifted the bag in his hand slightly, like it was an afterthought. Like he just happened to have it.

“Brought you lunch.”

My stomach clenched.

Something warm pressed against the back of my ribs, curling up my spine, tight and unfamiliar. My throat felt thick, my chest aching in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion.

I forced a small smile, stepping closer, the scent of warm bread curling into the space between us.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Mal just shrugged.

Of course he shrugged. He never made a big deal out of these things. Never called attention to the way he took care of me. Never let me thank him properly.

I didn’t know why that made my stomach knot even tighter.

He reached out, pressing the bag into my hands, his fingers warm against mine—rough with calluses, solid and steady. My own hand looked small against his, delicate, trembling just slightly as I curled my fingers around the weight of the food.

I swallowed, gripping the paper bag a little tighter, grounding myself in the warmth of it.

“Thanks, Mal.”

His head tilted slightly. “Yeah.”

Silence stretched between us—something heavier than usual, something that made my skin prickle. I shifted under the weight of it, hyper-aware of the belt locked around my waist, the unyielding pressure inside me. My body wasn’t mine anymore.

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