Page 38 of The Alpha Under My Bed

The small peephole in my door mocked me, but my legs wouldn’t move. A strange, irrational fear kept me rooted to the spot, my breath caught somewhere in my throat.

Something was wrong.

It wasn’t like I expected to see some shadowy figure standing on the other side, some nightmare brought to life. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t supposed to open this door.

And yet?—

My fingers curled around the handle, my body moving before my brain could catch up.

The lock clicked open, the door creaking just enough to let me see?—

Nothing.

No one was there.

The hallway was empty, quiet, still.

Just a stack of boxes sitting at my feet.

I stared at them.

Neatly wrapped, tied with crisp ribbons, perfectly placed like an offering.

My stomach twisted.

I already knew who they were from.

My name—my full name—was printed in delicate, sloping cursive across the top package. The kind of handwriting that belonged in love letters, on invitations, on something intimate.

My throat went dry.

My name wasn’t common. I didn’t go by the full thing—not even on official documents unless necessary. No one called me that. No one wrote it out like this.

Except for him.

My hands trembled as I crouched down, hesitant, fingers barely grazing the smooth paper. The packages weren’t heavy, but they felt like they should be.

Like if I picked them up, they’d drag me under.

I stepped back.

The air felt thick, suffocating, like the walls had somehow inched closer without me realizing it. My heart slammed against my ribs, a sick, twisting feeling blooming in my gut.

I shouldn’t open them.

I should leave them right here, turn around, shut the door, and pretend they don’t exist.

But I couldn’t.

I picked up the first box, the ribbon slipping loose with a pull, the lid lifting effortlessly.

Inside, nestled against soft tissue paper?—

An e-reader.

Brand new.

Thin, sleek, expensive.

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