Page 32 of The Alpha Under My Bed

Mal’s gaze flicked to my face, then lower. Something flickered across his expression before his brows pinched slightly.

“You look pale.”

I went still.

It wasn’t a question.

I opened my mouth to brush him off, to tell him I was fine—that it was just the long workday—but my throat felt tight.

I couldn’t tell him that I felt off, like I wasn’t all there, like I was half out of my body, floating somewhere between reality and the waking nightmare I had found myself in.

I couldn’t tell him that I woke up with a stranger’s bond mark on my neck, locked in a belt I couldn’t remove.

I forced a laugh, adjusting the bag in my hands, fighting the tremor threatening to creep into my voice.

“I’m fine, Mal.”

His jaw shifted again, his dark eyes lingering—a slow inhale expanding his chest. A calculated pause.

Then, finally?—

“Let me drive you home after work.”

My stomach flipped.

I opened my mouth to protest, to insist that I was fine, that I could walk—but his head tilted just slightly, the weight of his stare pinning me in place. It wasn’t demanding, wasn’t forceful—but it wasn’t a request.

I swallowed hard.

Mal was always protective. He had always offered to take care of me. But something about this moment—about the way his words curled around my ribs and settled deep in my chest—felt different.

I should tell him no. I should pretend like everything was fine.

But I didn’t.

I nodded, voice barely above a whisper.

“Okay.”

Mal didn’t look relieved.

Just satisfied.

He nodded once, short, like that was all he needed to hear, before turning for the door. He didn’t say anything else, didn’t wait for me to say anything either. Just left, his presence suddenly too much and not enough all at once.

I stared down at the bag in my hands, something tight and desperate curling in my chest, something cold and unsettling settling in my bones.

I wasn’t sure if it was relief—or something worse.

Ten

ELEANOR

The ride homewas too quiet.

Mal hadn’t turned on the radio, the only sounds filling the car were the low rumble of the engine and the occasional slide of his fingers over the worn leather of the gear shift. The air between us was thick with something unspoken—something that made my skin feel too tight, too sensitive. I kept my eyes on the window, watching the slow, rhythmic flicker of streetlights against the glass, trying to focus on anything except the aching heat still coiled low in my stomach. Just get home. That was the only thing I needed to focus on.

I shifted slightly, adjusting in my seat, desperate for some kind of relief—and immediately regretted it. A sharp, hot pulse shot through me, pressure and friction striking deep inside, sending a shockwave up my spine. My breath stuttered, a quiet, involuntary hitch that I hoped Mal hadn’t noticed.

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