Page 3 of The Alpha Under My Bed

The word hit harder than the wind.

A single word. Just that.

But it was enough.

My throat tightened as I stepped onto the edge of the driveway. Mal dropped the rag onto his workbench and met me halfway, his hands sliding over my arms, then higher, cupping my face, thumbs tracing the curve of my cheekbones.

Rough fingertips. Warm palms. Solid. Steady.

His touch was never gentle. It was deliberate. Grounding. The kind of touch that didn’t just hold me together—it pressed the cracks back into place.

He studied my face for a moment longer, then sighed.

“Another one?”

I let out a laugh—thin, brittle. It barely sounded like me.

I shook my head, tried to brush it off, but the movement was slow, my shoulders locked too tight, the heat behind my ribs burning too sharp.

And Mal—Mal saw everything.

His grip on my face tightened for just a second before he exhaled, tilting his head.

Then his arms dropped to my waist.

And before I could blink, he yanked me into him.

The breath stuttered from my chest as he crushed me against his hoodie, the scent of smoke and steel, motor oil and something deeper, something sharper, closing around me like a cage.

Not a trap, but a shelter.

I curled into him, my hands bunching into the thick fabric, my fingers pressing into the warmth of his ribs. His arms locked low around my back, one hand sliding up to cup the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair.

I barely registered the fact that his scent didn’t do anything to me.

Didn’t pull. Didn’t settle. Didn’t spark anything deep in my chest the way an alpha’s scent would.

Of course it didn’t. Mal was a beta.

He had always been safe.

Comfortable.

The one person I could trust.

“I’m fine,” I muttered against his chest.

He exhaled, slow and steady.

“You always say that.”

I didn’t answer, because there was nothing to say. Mal had always been there to pick up the pieces. And maybe that was why, even now, I never thought to ask why they kept falling apart in the first place.

The door to Mal’s apartment was already unlocked when we made it to our floor.

I should have said goodnight, walked across the hall, and not let myself fall into this routine again. But my feet carried me inside before I could talk myself out of it.

The loft was warm, the air thick with the scent of old books, leather, and the faintest trace of clove smoke.

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