Page 13 of Keep My Alpha

”—and honestly, most omegas don’t get the discipline it takes to look like this,“ he’s saying. “It’s a full-time commitment.”

“Derek,” I say. My voice is steadier than I feel. “I don’t think this is working.”

He stops. His expression doesn’t change to disappointment or even surprise. It just hardens. Like a light going off behind his eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“I just... I don’t think we’re a good match.” I’m already grabbing my bag, pulling the strap onto my shoulder. “You seem nice, but—“

“We’ve been here twenty minutes.”

“I know, and I appreciate you coming, but I don’t feel—“

“You didn’t even give me a chance.” His voice drops. It’s not a full alpha command, but it’s the warning before the command, the low-frequency pressure that vibrates in my chest and makes the hair on my arms stand up. “Sit down. Let’s talk.”

“I’d rather not.” I stand. My chair scrapes against the floor, too loud. The girl with the headphones looks up. “Thank you for the coffee, but I’m going to go.”

I turn for the door, and his hand snaps around my wrist.

His grip isn’t painful, but it’s firm.

“Hey.” He’s standing now, too close, and that cologne is everywhere, choking the air out of the space between us. He’s steering me, subtly, toward the little alcove by the bathrooms, away from the windows. “Come on, don’t be like that.” His voice drops to a fake-friendly murmur. “We both know why you’re here. You’re an omega on KnotMe. You didn’t swipe right to talk about poetry.”

My scent sours with panic. I can smell it myself—sharp and acrid, burnt sugar where there should be lavender.

“Let go of me,” I whisper.

“Relax.” His thumb digs into my wrist. “I’m not doing anything. Just saying you could loosen up. Have some fun. Isn’t that what the app’s for—“

Someone steps between us.

It’s not a gentle thing. One second, Derek is all I can see and smell, and the next there’s a back. A solid wall of gray blocking everything.

And then.

Oh.

Something floods in where the cologne was. Something that pours through the panic like warm water through ice, and my whole body goes, I don’t have a word yet. Every tight, wrong, terrified thing uncoils at once.

His scent. The person between me and Derek, his scent is clean and warm and green, like walking into a sunlit room full of growing things, and underneath there’s something I can’t name—resinous and steady and so right that my knees actually buckle. My hand flies out and grabs the back of his shirt.

He’s not huge, average height maybe, compact, but he feels immovable.

I can’t see his face. Just the back of his neck, the tendons drawn tight. The collar of his shirt, frayed at the seam. A smudge of something on his forearm where the sleeve is pushed up, and his hands, his hands, scarred across the knuckles.

He hasn’t said a word.

He doesn’t need to. He’s standing there, and I’m standing behind him, and every cell in my body is leaning toward the warm line of his back like a plant someone turned toward the sun.

My vision blurs. I might be crying. I am definitely shaking.

I hold on tighter.

Wren

The compression nut under the espresso counter is still fighting me when the scent hits.

Sour. Sharp enough to cut through plumber’s putty and burnt espresso and the damp floor mat I’ve been kneeling on.