Page 17 of Keep My Alpha

“You don’t have to thank me for any of that.”

“I’m going to anyway.” He straightens his shirt. “My friend Milo can pick me up. His alpha Callum has a car.”

“I’ll walk you to the pickup spot.”

“You don’t have to—“

“I know I don’t have to.”

He looks at me for a long moment. Then he pulls out his phone and texts someone, thumbs moving fast. Thirty seconds later his screen explodes with incoming messages that I can hear buzzing from where I stand. He tips the screen away from me, cheeks going pink again.

“My friends. They’re, um. Enthusiastic.”

“I bet.”

We walk to the edge of campus together. Side by side, not touching, because if I touch him again right now, I’m not going to be able to stop. I track every person who passes us. We’re in public, but every cell in my body is screaming keep him, take him home, build him something and never let him leave. I can’t do any of that. Not yet. Not when he doesn’t know the half of what I am to him.

The pickup spot is a bench near the main gate. We sit. His knee bounces. My hands are in my lap, still shaking, and I fold them together so he won’t see.

Headlights sweep across us after a few minutes. A dark truck pulls up. The passenger window rolls down and a big alpha with kind eyes leans across. Callum, I’m guessing.

Soren stands. Hesitates. Turns back.

“Text me when you’re home, okay?” he says, throwing my own line back at me with a crooked smile.

“I will.”

He opens the truck door. A slight omega with dark hair and a denim jacket three sizes too big is already leaning across the back seat, reaching for him, Milo I’m guessing, and the flood of omega concern that pours out of that truck is thick enough to smell from the curb. Soren climbs in. The door closes.

The truck pulls away.

I sit on the bench. My hands won’t stop shaking. I press them flat against my thighs and breathe in the ghost of him still clinging to my shirt, my skin, everything.

Eventually, my phone buzzes.

Soren: home safe. milo is force-feeding me cookies and asking seventeen questions. thank you, wren. for everything.

I read it twice. Three times.

I send: Good. Eat the cookies. Goodnight, Soren.

I lock my phone and press it against my thigh for a second, not even trying to stop the smile that explodes across my face.

Soren

“You’re wrinkling your nametag,” Professor Hannover says, catching my hand before I can peel the edge off my chest again. “Leave it alone. People need to know who the anonymous-gift poet is.”

The nametag reads Soren Patel, Poetry: “Anonymous Gifts” Cycle in block letters, and my fingers keep finding the corner like it’s a loose tooth. Some people have nervous habits that make them look cool and mysterious. Mine makes me look like I’m tweaking.

“Stand up straight,” Hannover murmurs. “Deep breath. You belong here.”

“Sure,” I say, but she doesn’t seem to hear the sarcasm.

Inside, the gallery is all white walls and natural light, folding chairs in a loose semicircle, easels and pedestals around the perimeter. Maybe thirty people with coffee cups and festival folders. I’m scanning for familiar faces when my eyes catch on a carved tree across the room.

It’s amazing. The bark is so realistic I want to run my hands over it.

Then I catch sight of who’s adjusting the tree on its display table.