Page 52 of Keep My Alpha

“I wrote that.”

“About me.”

“About you.” I press my forehead against his jaw. “Every word.”

He holds me tight, not gently but possessively, his hands pressed flat against my back like he’s trying to hold all of me. One hand cups the back of my head, fingers in my hair, and he keeps me close like he never wants to let go. His heart beats fast against my chest. I press my face into his neck and breathe him in because he is mine and I said so in front of everyone and the universe didn’t take him away. Under my cheek, his pulse races with mine.

The judges talk in their corner, but I don’t watch. I’m too busy being held by an alpha whose hands are shaking because of a poem.

When they announce the awards, it feels almost anticlimactic, but in a good way. Wren gets a special mention for “Craft and Narrative Integration,” which makes him blush and mutter that it’s not a real category. I win the audience-choice award for poetry, and Jude reacts like I’ve won Olympic gold. He lifts me off the ground, and Rhys has to pull him off me.

“That was Bronte-level poetry,” Jude says to no one in particular. It’s the highest compliment he can give and proof that my bird-naming habit has spread to everyone.

But what I’ll remember long after the certificates are forgotten is how everyone talks to us like we’re a team.

“You two are incredible.”

“Your work together...”

“The way the poems and the birds talk to each other...”

Benji comes over while Wren is stuck talking to a judge about commissions.

“So,” he says. “Long-term siege. Told you.”

“You told me.”

“I’m always right. It’s my worst quality.” He takes a sip. “Best in Show, though? That’s Soren’s mate.” He says it louder than he needs to, making sure the whole room hears. “Best in Show: Soren’s mate. Calling it now.”

Across the gallery, Wren blushes again. Knox laughs so hard he spills his drink.

Later, after the crowd thins and the judges leave, I lean against a wall with Wren beside me, the tree glowing behind us. My birds turn gently on their wires, and Stay catches the fairy light on her wings.

The lights are still crooked. They’ve been that way all night and nobody noticed but me. It’s probably a metaphor I’ll use later.

He shifts his weight. There’s about two inches between our shoulders, and every bit of space feels electric. If I leaned left, my arm would touch his. But I stay where I am, letting the wanting linger, slow and sweet.

“More shows?”

“If you want.”

“I want to. Maybe sell some birds? Not mine—new ones. Custom orders.”

“I could do that.” He goes quiet for a moment. “Aaron already made me an Etsy account. I have no idea how to use it.”

I laughI laugh. “We’ll figure it out. And I was thinking—Professor Hannover mentioned a chapbook program through the English department. Small press, limited run.”

“A whole book of your poems?”

“Maybe. If they’re good enough.”

“They’re good enough.” He doesn’t hesitate. No question, just fact—the way Wren always says things.

He takes my hand, turns it over, and presses his mouth to the center of my palm. It’s slow and deliberate, like he’s sealing a promise. My knees go weak.

“Ready to go home?” he asks, his voice close to my skin.

Home. He means my apartment, where our nest is finished and waiting.