Page 10 of His Problem Alpha
Alex
My vision blurs at the edges. It’s not Devon's usual sharp citrus and coffee scent hitting me—it’s something overwhelmingly sweet, like honey and overripe fruit left in the sun. It’s thick with his panic, a cloying sweetness laced with the sharp, sour tang of fear. It coats the back of my throat, a taste as much as a smell, and my alpha instincts don't just stir; they detonate.
Protect. Safe. Mine.
The thoughts slam into me, not my own, primal and overwhelming. My body reacts instantly. My cock hardens painfully against my jeans, a possessive growl building in my chest that I have to physically swallow down. I've never felt anything like this before—this need burning in my bones to claim him, shield him, fix everything.
"Devon," I manage to say, my voice a rough scrape I barely recognize. "You don't know what you're asking."
He's curled on the hallway floor, his body trembling violently, sweat soaking through his thin t-shirt. His eyes are glassy, pupils blown so wide the warm brown is just a thin ring around bottomless black. The sweet, honeyed scent of his heat is mixed with something sharper—fear, embarrassment, desperation.
"I know exactly what I'm asking," he gasps, another wave of heat visibly washing over him. His back arches, a broken sound escaping his throat. "I need—I can't—" His words dissolve into a whimper that hits me straight in the gut.
I can't leave him like this. I can't touch him. I can't think.
"We need to get you to a clinic," I say, the words automatic, distant. "There are places that handle this. Professional places. With people who aren't—who aren't me."
Devon shakes his head, the movement jerky and uncoordinated. "Can't. Too far. Can't even stand." His fingers clutch at the hardwood floor like he's trying to anchor himself to something solid. "Please, Alex. It hurts."
Fuck.
I'm moving before I can think, dropping down and scooping his trembling body into my arms. He weighs almost nothing, or maybe it’s just the adrenaline flooding my system. My skin touches his and I nearly drop him—the contact like touching a live wire. He's burning up, his skin so hot against mine it's like handling something fresh from the oven.
Devon makes a sound—half relief, half desperation—and turns his face into my chest, burying his nose against my shirt. He inhales deeply, his entire body shuddering.
"Alpha," he murmurs, the word muffled against my chest, and something in me breaks open, raw and terrifying.
I carry him to his bedroom. Every step is a battle. Part of me screams to run. Another part roars to hold him closer, never let go. This isn't the Devon I know—the sharp-tongued, pricklyroommate who makes my life hell. This is someone vulnerable, pliant, needing me in a way that feels too heavy, too important.
I've spent six years making sure no one needs me. Making sure I can't hurt anyone else.
His room smells like him, but stronger, sweeter, the heat pheromones saturating every surface. I lay him carefully on the bed, and he immediately curls in on himself, arms wrapped around his middle like he's trying to hold himself together.
"Don't leave," he gasps, reaching for me as I step back. "Please don't leave me."
"I'm not leaving," I say, even as every instinct screams at me to get out, to put as much distance between us as possible. "I'm just... thinking."
I pace his small room, running a hand through my hair. My thoughts are chaos, clouded by his heat scent and my desperate need to respond to it. There has to be another way. A way that doesn't involve me. A way that doesn't risk... everything.
"Devon, listen to me," I say, forcing my voice to remain steady. "I'm going to call someone. An ambulance. Or a heat clinic. They have staff for this—people who are trained to handle heats."
"No," he moans, the word sharp with panic. "No hospitals. No strangers. I can't—I can't let anyone see me like this."
"Then what about Lawson? Or Kole?" I suggest, grasping at straws. "They're your friends. They'd help."
His face crumples, a flash of such raw vulnerability crossing his features that it physically hurts to witness. "No," he whispers. "They can't—I'm supposed to be the one who has his shit together. The funny one. Not... this."
I understand that more than I want to admit. I’ve spent years making sure no one sees me crack. Making sure no one has to carry my weight.
"Okay," I say, my mind racing. "Okay, no friends. But there has to be someone else. A service, maybe? Professional heat partners?"
He lets out a broken laugh that turns into a moan as another wave hits him. "You think I can afford that? On my freelance salary?" His eyes squeeze shut, his body tensing. "Besides, it would take hours. I need—I need help now."
The desperation in his voice claws at something deep in my chest. I pull out my phone, scrolling frantically through search results for "emergency heat assistance" and finding a 24/7 omega health hotline. It's not much, but it's something—a lifeline, a way to pass the responsibility to someone who knows what they're doing.
"I'm calling a medical hotline," I tell Devon, who's watching me through half-lidded eyes. "They'll know what to do."
He doesn't respond, just nods weakly, his breathing shallow and rapid. The call connects after two rings, and a calm, professional voice answers.
