Page 56 of Keep My Alpha

Soren comes back to me. He doesn’t say anything, just settles into the lawn chair I grabbed, fits himself against my side with his legs over mine, and buries his nose under my ear. His mouth brushes my neck, and I feel his sigh more than I hear it.

His breath hits the skin under my jaw and my whole body goes tense.

I freeze. My arm’s already around him, palm spread over the dip of his waist under his thin shirt, thumb on the bare skin where his shirt’s ridden up. If I moved my hand just a little, I could trace his spine and feel his breath catch. I don’t. It feels like if I move, I’ll set something off.

His scent changes, sweeter and darker all at once. My cock throbs against my zipper, and I have to breathe through my mouth so I don’t groan. I think about sliding my hand up under his shirt—not to grope, just to feel the warm skin of his stomach, the way his muscles would twitch under my palm. I picture him turning into my throat and licking over my pulse while I hold him still, making sure no one else sees how much he wants it.

I think about a lot of things I’m definitely not doing in the middle of Declan’s patio.

“Hey,” I say, voice low and rough.

“Hey.” His voice is sleepy and smoke-sweet. “Knox’s bird is on the dessert table. Milo put it next to the brownies. It’s guarding them.”

“Good. It’s found its purpose.”

He laughs, quiet and warm against my throat, and my arm tightens around him. His thigh slides higher over mine, and the new pressure against my dick is torture. Perfect, awful torture. There’s a moment when his breath stutters and he realizes how hard I am. He doesn’t pull away. If anything, he settles in heavier, like he’s seeing how much he can get away with before I lose it.

The patio’s quieter now. I look around at all of it. The string lights. The loose railing I’m not fixing tonight. The people who, somehow, ended up being mine.

“I love you,” I say.

Soren lifts his head. His eyes are dark and shining, and the look on his face wrecks me the same way it wrecked me the first time he said my name in that hallway. For half a second his gaze drops to my mouth, and the want that flashes across his face is so naked my breath stalls.

“I love you too,” he says.

Then he yawns against my neck, big and unselfconscious, and his whole body goes heavy on top of me.

He drags his cheek against my throat as he settles in, slow and on purpose. It’s a promise. Later, when we’re alone, he’ll let me peel him out of that thin shirt and kiss him until he’s shaking. Until slick is running down his thighs and the only thing either of us can hear is my name and the bed creaking.

I press my lips to the top of his head.

He’s out in under a minute. One second he’s warm and heavy against me, the next his breathing evens out and his hand goes slack on my knee. Keats is still balanced on his other leg, standing guard.

Across the patio, Declan catches my eye over the grill. He doesn’t say anything. Tips his beer in my direction, and I tip mine back.

The railing can wait till tomorrow.

I close my eyes, rest my chin on top of Soren’s head, and hold on to everything I’ve got.

Epilogue - Soren

One Year Later

***

Sawdust in the hallway again.

It trails from the front door to the bedroom, golden in the evening light, like breadcrumbs from a fairy tale I got to keep.

A year ago, the only trails in this apartment were made by absence. Jude’s room was empty, nail holes left where his posters hung. Milo’s door stayed open because no one was there. Benji’s combat boots were missing from the shoe rack. Some nights, I walked from hallway to kitchen to living room until the quiet pressed down on me and wouldn’t let go.

Now there’s a tool belt hanging on the coat hook. Muddy work boots sit next to my canvas sneakers. Wren put up a shelf by the door while I was at the library, and now his chisels and gouges line up neatly, handles out like little soldiers. Jude’s old room has a workbench squeezed in, and the door won’t close because Wren stuck a piece of oak in the frame to stop the squeak and never sanded it.

It’s our apartment. I still can’t help grinning every time.

Our nest is a bit much. I know it, but I don’t mind. There are layers of blue and cream blankets from the thrift store, piled so high you can’t see the mattress. My cardigans are mixed in like threads. Three of Wren’s flannels are tucked in just right so I can bury my face in them when he’s at work. Even Knox’s lumpy creation sits at the end of the shelf, like a chaperone nobody invited.

Wren sits cross-legged in the middle of it all, shirtless, with a sketchpad on one knee. His pencil moves in small, confident strokes. His hair is messy from the shower, and there’s a smudge of graphite on his jaw.