Page 2 of The Alpha Under My Bed

And still, I waited.

Maybe he got busy.

Maybe he got sick.

Maybe he was like every other alpha and pack I’d matched with in the last six months—interested at first, eager even—but the second we set a time, set a place? Gone.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

TCI didn’t get itwrong.

It couldn’t get it wrong.

And yet, here I was. Again.

I wrapped my arms around myself, pressing my nails into the fabric of my sweater as the barista wiped down the counter. Her gaze flicked to me, lips pressing into something that wasn’t quite a frown, wasn’t quite pity, but it made heat creep up the back of my neck anyway.

I scraped my chair back before she could say anything, reaching for my coat.

The bell above the door chimed as I stepped outside.

The cold air hit me all at once, sharp and unforgiving.

The street smelled like woodsmoke and damp pavement, the distant scent of pine mixing with the lingering warmth of vanilla beans from the bakery next door. I could hear laughter from somewhere down the block, the soft rumble of an engine starting, the faintest echo of music drifting through an open window.

The world kept moving, unfazed by the fact that my night had unraveled.

My arms curled tighter around myself as I started walking home.

I pulled my coat tighter around myself, hating the way my perfume still clung to my skin—too warm, too sweet—an echo of a night that never happened.

I should have taken another route home.

Should have gone the long way.

But my feet carried me down the usual path, boots clicking against the pavement, a shiver working its way down my spine as a gust of wind cut through the thin knit of my sweater.

Then I saw it.

The glow of the garage.

The light spilled onto the pavement, catching on scattered wrenches and the gleam of chrome, the unmistakable scent of oil and burnt rubber curling through the air.

And standing in the middle of it, one hand braced on the frame of a custom bike, was Mal.

Of course he was still awake.

The tightness in my chest twisted, winding sharp and unrelenting.

I slowed my steps, but it was pointless—he had already seen me.

Mal wiped his hands on a rag, but he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched.

My boots scraped against the pavement as I crossed the street, but I barely registered the sound. The cool amber glow from the shop framed the sharp cut of his jaw, his hood drawn loosely over dark hair.

I hadn’t even reached the sidewalk before he tilted his head, his gaze flicking over me, taking me in like he already knew.

“Sweetheart.”

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