Page 16 of Training the Alpha

“I want you, Marcus,” I say, a little too quickly and a little too raw, not good at holding my cards close to my chest. His grip on my jaw tightens just slightly, his eyes dropping to my lips as he exhales sharply.

“I don’t want to make excuses,” he says, his voice so low it’s nearly a whisper. “You don’t deserve to be kept in the dark.”

“No, I don’t.”

“I know. I just don’t know how to handle this publicly yet. The gym is my life, boxing is my life, but it’s unforgiving. Conservative. I’m terrified of losing it, but I’m just as terrified of losing you. I just… I just need a little time, Alex.”

The raw honesty in his voice and the vulnerability in his dark, pleading eyes make a deep ache bloom in my chest, and I realize just how far gone I am. My rational brain is screaming at me to walk away, but even with the uncertainty hanging between us, the thought of cutting ties is too painful.

“You’re an idiot,” I sigh with a soft, breathy laugh that comes out more like a half-sob. I bring my hand up to grasp his, where his fingers are rubbing against my jaw. “And so am I. But you’re going to have to decide which you’re more afraid of losing at some point soon, because I don’t know how much more time I can give you, Marcus.”

He nods fiercely, his lips pressed into a hard line like he’s trying to keep his emotions locked in tight. And when he leans in, I think he’s about to kiss me, but he pulls me into a hard, all-consuming hug instead. And that somehow feels a hundred times more intimate than all the times he’s been inside me. His hands cling to my back, his stubble pressing against my cheek, not an inch of space between us. His pheromones wash over me in a heady, deliberate wave, and it occurs to me that this is as close as we’ve ever come to formally scent marking one another.

It’s not something that usually makes any sense between two alphas—after all, we’re biologically wired to be in competition with one another, not provide comfort or mark a claim—but the low hum the gesture sets off deep in my psyche couldn’t be further from aggression. When I push my scent out in answer, Marcus only burrows further into the crook of my neck.

And maybe I really am deluded, but this doesn’t feelanythinglike what I had with Rob.

“Let me show you,” Marcus breathes against my ear. “Let me try.”

All I can do is nod, pull him close, and pray that I don’t live to regret this.

Marcus

I don’t see Alex for an entire week after the club.

Logically, I know why: he’s gearing up for opening night on Thursday, buried under costume fittings, run-throughs, and tech rehearsals. He needs to conserve every ounce of energy he has just to see him through the physical and emotional rollercoaster of this week. From everything Alex has told me, it’s not unlike the build-up to a big fight.

But my stupid, anxious brain doesn’t give two shits about logic.

In the downtime between training clients and stressing over spreadsheets, the questions start to creep in. Did I say too much in the club bathroom? Did I not say enough? Is Alex sick of waiting for me to get my shit together? I couldn’t even blame him.

Not to mention how much I miss him. Not hearing his outrageous comments around the gym or seeing the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs—reallylaughs, not the vacant chuckle he puts on when he’s just being polite—weighs on me heavier every day.

When he asked me to stop in that bathroom, and I saw the flash of pain in his eyes, and I thought he was about to walk away… it felt like my entire world was crumbling around me. And I told him that I was just as terrified of losing him as I wasof losing everything I’ve built at the gym, but every day that we’re apart, the balance is tipping in his favor.

So I try to stay true to my word: I fuckingtry. I use the time apart to try to make space in my life for him. I try to fix my fucking head. I try to find the words to express all the confusion I’ve been wrestling with since long before I met him.

The first thing I did when I got home that night was finally click ‘purchase’ on the ticket to the opening night ofCreaturethat had been sitting in my basket since the first day Alex came into the Foundry.

Max and Jed stop mid-conversation when I step into the office after getting changed into my shirt and chinos on Thursday night, Jed trilling an obnoxiously loud wolf-whistle.

“Holy shit, dude,” Max grins. “This might be the first time I’ve seen you out of athleisure in our entire friendship. Who’s the lucky lady?”

“Fuck off, I wear real clothes,” I say, flipping him off and ignoring his question. “Sometimes.”

“Seriously, what’s the occasion?” Jed asks, leaning against a desk.

I pick up my bag, reflexively checking my phone for any texts from Alex even though I know there won’t be any. We’ve been texting on and off this week, and he sent me a selfie from bed this morning in response to agood luck on opening nighttext that made me need to take a cold shower before work, his dirty blonde hair messy and his piercing eyes soft with sleep.

“I’m going to the theatre,” I say gruffly.

Jed’s eyebrows shoot up. “The theatre? Like, plays and stuff? Shakespeare?”

“Dance, actually,” I say, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “Ballet.”

“Since when do you—” Max starts, before realization dawns across his face. “Wait, is this your dancer boy? Is he performing?”

I tense up instinctively, but I remind myself that Max and Jed aren’t assholes. And that I’m trying to be better. To be honest. “Alex. Yeah. Opening night.”