Page 17 of Training the Alpha

“Well, goddamn, where was my invite?” Jed says, looking outraged. “Do I not look cultured?”

“No,” Max and I say in unison. Jed balks.

Max gives me a long, studying look as I pretend to be busy logging out of my computer. “I think it’s cool that you’re going,” he says eventually. “I like Alex.”

“Me too,” Jed agrees, producing a protein bar from nowhere and ripping it open. “He walks around like he owns the place. I respect that. And dancers are badass.”

“Yeah, he is,” I mutter, a relieved, slightly surprised smile tugging the corners of my mouth upwards. Sometimes I have to remind myself that these guys are my friends for a reason. “I gotta go if I want to be on time.”

“Knock ‘em dead, big guy,” Max says, offering a small nod.

I leave them behind in the familiar, safe scent of the Foundry, and the knots in my stomach only tighten the closer I get to the city center. By the time I’m stepping off the subway and into the theater, my palms are sweating, my skin prickling with the awareness that I’m simultaneously both over- and under-dressed.

I feel like an alien stepping into the auditorium, the plush velvet of my seat unfamiliar, the smell of wine and heavy perfume overwhelming.

But when the lights drop, the curtains go down, and Alex steps onto the stage, that all melts away.

Watching Alex dance on stage is nothing short of a revelation.

I’ve made a career out of fine-tuning people’s physical performance, and before tonight, I probably would have considered myself an expert in strength, power, agility. But after seeing Alex perform… I’ll happily admit that I know nothing. Nothing at all.

Coming from the gym, where brute force and unrestrained aggression rule, sitting in those velvet theater seats and watching Alex stroll out under the lights, all clean lines and taut sinew, is like being dropped into another world.

I watch him, rapt, as he glides across the stage with a level of practiced control that would make even our top fighters weep. He’s a gazelle with the power of a lion, launching himself into the air with such breathtaking grace that it would be easy to assume he was born with the ability to lift and turn and contort himself like that. But I know better; every minuscule movement is the result of years of grueling training mixed with raw talent.

It’s not just strength, it’s fucking artistry.

I find Alex in his dressing room after the show, weaving backstage through throngs of dancers, costumers and stagehands until I spot an ajar door emblazoned with his name. He’s not alone; there’s a tiny omega woman I recognize from both the club and the stage talking with him animatedly, but their conversation breaks off as soon as I knock lightly and poke my head around the door.

“I hope I’m not interrupting, I can come back—”

Alex stares at me for a long second, wide-eyed and confused, and panic starts to set in. Should I have told him I was coming? Should I not have come at all?

But then a glorious, beaming smile breaks across his face. “Marcus,” he starts, floating over to grasp my hand and drag me into the room, not letting go. “Of course not, come in.”

After how twitchy I’ve been in the gym not to get too close or touch him with too much affection, it feels strange to hold hands so openly. It feels good.

“This is Colette,” he says breathlessly, gesturing to the ballerina. She gives me a cautious smile. “Coco, this is Marcus.”

“Good to meet you, Colette. You were incredible, both of you,” I say, glancing back and forth between them. “I’m not a ballet expert or anything, but… yeah. Wow. I wish I were better with words. I should have brought flowers. It was just… I’m speechless.”

“You’re too kind, Marcus,” she says, just as poised and professional as I’d expect for a prima ballerina. But then her face turns serious, her voice dropping a register. “But if you hurt this sweet boy, I need you to know that I won’t hesitate to chop your dick off and feed it to my hamster. And that may sound like a joke, but I assure you—”

“Jesus, Coco, get out of here,” Alex laughs, making an exaggerated show of rolling his eyes and shooing her out of the room. But I reach a hand out to stop her before she leaves, her words twisting in my gut.

“I don’t intend to, just so you know,” I say, no humor in my voice, because I mean it. “I’m really trying not to.”

“Well, you’re doing kind of a shitty job of it,” she bites back, eyes fierce, and I think ballet dancers might be more terrifying than boxers.

“Coco!” Alex warns. “He’s here, isn’t he?”

Colette looks at us both, her lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line. “I guess so,” she concedes eventually, her expression softening just a fraction. She turns to me before she slips out the door, whispering a low, “You’re lucky you’re hot. I’ve got my eye on you.”

The door clicks closed, and it’s just us. Alex’s scent is strong from the exertion of the performance, making myalpha instincts thrum hotly in my veins. He’s still wearing his costume, the tight fabric hugging every hard line of muscle.

“Sorry about that. She’s a menace.” He turns, pressing his back against the closed door and looking down at our linked hands. “Face of an angel, mind of a demon.”

“Just like someone else I know,” I quip, letting him tug me closer. There’s a lot I want to say, but now’s not the time. Alex is riding high off the adrenaline of the performance, and all I want to do is shower him in praise.