Page 10 of Bully Alpha’s Pregnant Mate (Starfire Hollow Alphas #2)

I wake up with a headache that feels like a small construction crew is hammering inside my skull. The first blurry thought that crosses my mind is that I should avoid vodka for the rest of my life. Then, like a slow-motion horror reel, memories from last night trickle in—the drinks, the accusations, the way Alec just… listened.

And… oh no, his apology.

I sink further under the covers, as if they’ll somehow shield me from the mortification boiling up in my chest. I don’t remember every detail, but I remember enough to know I basically spilled out years of resentment and anger right in front of him. And if that wasn’t bad enough, he apologized. Genuinely apologized. Just thinking about it has me wrestling between wanting to hide and wanting to face him.

After a few more minutes, I decide on avoidance. I pull myself together, gulp down water with a side of painkillers, and grab my things, making it to the bookstore an hour early, hoping to lose myself in a mountain of books before Alec has a chance to appear.

I’ve just barely started shelving some new arrivals when the door chimes. I glance over, and of course, there he is. Alec, looking annoyingly fresh and well-rested, steps inside, holding two paper cups and a brown paper bag. Just the smell of coffee alone is enough to soothe my nerves a fraction, but I keep my face neutral.

“Good morning,” he says, that half-smile of his tugging at the corner of his mouth. He lifts the bag and one of the coffees. “Thought you might want something for… you know.” He gestures vaguely at me.

“For my shame-hangover?” I grumble, grabbing the coffee he offers and taking a much-needed sip. “Thanks, but caffeine can’t fix a case of regret.”

He lets out a small chuckle and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “I figured. But breakfast might help.” He hands me the bag, and I hesitate before taking it. Inside is a warm croissant sandwich, and if I wasn’t so embarrassed, I’d say he was being thoughtful.

“Thanks,” I say quietly, unwrapping it. But the heaviness in the air lingers, and I clear my throat. “Look, about last night… I’m sorry if I, uh, made a scene. It was… unfair. I know how much we need to keep up appearances, and that didn’t help matters.”

He shakes his head before I can continue. “Don’t apologize, Isadora. You had every right to say what you did. Honestly, I deserved worse after the way I treated you.”

The sincerity in his voice catches me off-guard. It’s clear he means it—like he’s genuinely holding himself accountable. I’m so used to him deflecting that I don’t quite know how to respond.

“Maybe, but I didn’t mean to unload it all on you like that,” I counter, trying to maintain some kind of composure. “It’s not like you’re the same person you were back then. I’m sure you’ve grown up at least a little.”

“Maybe not, but I still caused all of that.” He runs a hand through his hair, looking away for a moment. “It’s a long time coming, Izzy. I’ve never apologized to you for the things I did… or let happen. I know it’s not enough, but I’m trying to make up for it.”

It’s the use of “Izzy” that almost makes me drop my coffee. Hearing him say my name like that, as if we’re still two kids who haven’t hurt each other yet—it brings back a flash of memories, of the summers before everything went sour.

“Don’t call me that,” I say, my voice softer than I intend. “You don’t get to use that nickname. Only my family calls me Izzy.”

He nods, and there’s a hint of sadness in his gray eyes, like he understands what I really mean. “Alright. But the apology stands.”

For a moment, I’m not sure what to say. The person in front of me is a far cry from the arrogant, careless guy I remember. Maybe he’s really changed. But part of me is wary, wondering if this is just another side of the same guy who could turn and hurt me without warning.

“I don’t know what you expect from me, Alec,” I say finally, focusing on the bread in my hands rather than meeting his eyes. “Forgiveness? A fresh start?”

He takes a deep breath and says, “I’m not asking for forgiveness, and I’m definitely not expecting it. I just want you to know I’m here, and that I’ll keep showing up. And maybe, eventually, you’ll believe that.”

It’s a good answer, but I still don’t know how to let my guard down around him. I can’t shake the memories, the taunting, the years of feeling like I was the invisible girl in a room he ruled. But maybe… maybe he’s right. Maybe he’s changed, and maybe I need to give myself the chance to see that.

I clear my throat, taking another sip of coffee to hide my hesitation. “Alright, then,” I say, trying to keep my tone light, though the tension in the air makes it difficult. “Consider this your chance. But don’t get too comfortable. I still reserve the right to hold things against you.”

He laughs, a low, genuine sound that somehow eases the tension. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

For the first time, it feels like the walls between us are a little thinner, like there’s a sliver of common ground. Maybe, just maybe, it’s possible to rebuild something on it.

There’s a shift, a small one, in the days after our conversation at the bookstore. Nothing grand or obvious, just little things. Like how Alec always brings an extra coffee to the shop without asking, or how he’s suddenly a regular at the bookstore, stopping by “to check in,” though he doesn’t say on what. He doesn’t overdo it, and he doesn’t push, just shows up with a casual smile, some story from his day, or a question about the book he’s pretending to read.

Each time he shows up, there’s this weird energy between us. At first, I ignore it, chalking it up to a misplaced sense of nostalgia or just my brain adjusting to seeing him as something other than my teenage nightmare. But it’s not so simple. There’s this awareness simmering, quiet but insistent. I’ll feel his eyes on me while I’m talking, or he’ll lean close to show me something, brushing his arm against mine, and suddenly, my breath is hitching. It’s infuriating.

One night, after the bookstore closes, I get home to find him in the kitchen with his elbows on the counter, deep in thought. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, revealing tanned, muscled forearms, and I hate myself a little for noticing.

“Rough day?” I ask, setting down my bag.

He glances up, his expression softening as he takes me in. “Nothing I can’t handle. You?” His eyes linger on mine, and I feel this pulse of warmth that I promptly ignore.

“Another day of alphabetizing shelves and dodging questions about our so-called ‘honeymoon phase,’” I explain, rolling my eyes.

His grin is wicked. “People are curious. Can you blame them?”

“I blame you,” I counter, moving past him to grab a glass of water. I can feel him watching me as I do, his gaze heavier than it has any right to be. There’s this thrill in his stare, like he’s genuinely… interested.

“Me?” he asks, all innocent. “What did I do?”

I shoot him a look over my shoulder, trying to ignore the way my heart trips at his tone. “Besides barge into my workplace and act like some charming alpha prince every day since I’ve started?”

He crosses his arms, still smiling. “I think you like the attention. Or at least, you don’t hate it as much as you let on.”

I roll my eyes, but heat creeps up my neck. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Isadora,” he says with a tsk sound, “you don’t have to keep fighting me on this.”

I freeze, meeting his gaze. His eyes are steady, serious, and it’s like he’s trying to tell me something he can’t quite put into words. I’m suddenly hyper-aware of how close we’re standing, of the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air. It’s woodsy and masculine, and it sends a bolt of heat straight between my legs.

“Who’s fighting?” I say, trying to brush it off with a smirk. But it feels flimsy, and I know he sees right through it.

Days go by, and he continues to surprise me. Alec, the guy who used to ignore me for sport, now remembers my coffee order, holds doors open, and—most disturbingly—knows exactly how to make me laugh.

He’s there in the mornings, always making just enough coffee for two. At night, he’ll knock on my door and casually invite me to watch whatever show he’s put on, claiming it’s just background noise for “all the alpha paperwork” he’s supposedly doing.

One evening, we’re in the living room, watching some mindless reality television. I’m wrapped in a blanket, trying to ignore how good he looks with that relaxed, easygoing smirk on his face. Out of nowhere, he nudges my foot with his, a soft, playful touch that’s almost too familiar.

“You’re actually watching this?” he asks, sounding impressed.

I roll my eyes. “It’s distracting. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh, I think I get it,” he replies, his gaze dropping to my mouth for a split second before he looks back at the screen. “You just need something to look at. Lucky for you, I’m here.”

“Wow, confident much?” I say, but there’s a spark in my tone, something that almost sounds like flirting. And from the way he grins, he definitely notices.

“Just stating facts, Isadora. I can always find something other than trash television to keep you entertained.”

He shifts, leaning in just a little, and I realize my heart’s racing. I can smell his cologne, that faint, woodsy scent that’s become too familiar, and for one wild moment, I think he might actually kiss me.

But then he laughs and leans back. The moment dissolves, leaving me both relieved and disappointed at the same time.

Over the following weeks, it’s like he has this sixth sense for getting under my skin. He finds excuses to be close, brushing past me in the hallway or leaning just a little too close when he’s showing me something on his phone. And the way he looks at me—like he actually sees me—is unnerving. I keep telling myself it’s all an act, that he’s just trying to make things right. But the more time we spend together, the harder it is to ignore the pull between us.

One night, I’m standing in the kitchen, attempting to bake something just to prove I can. The recipe is complicated, and I’m wrestling with a stubborn bit of dough when Alec walks in, laughing when he sees the mess I’ve made.

“You need some help?” he asks, moving to stand beside me.

“I’ve got it,” I insist, but he’s already reached out, his hands covering mine, guiding the dough in slow, steady motions. The warmth of his hands, the weight of his touch—it’s so simple, yet somehow, it feels more intimate than anything we’ve shared so far. My pulse quickens, and I’m hyper-aware of every inch of him, of the way his fingers brush mine, of the way his breath ghosts over my shoulder.

“See?” he murmurs, his voice low and close. “Nothing to it. The more you work it, the more it’ll fall in line.”

I swallow, trying to keep my tone steady. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one elbow-deep in flour.”

He chuckles, his breath warm against my ear. “Guess you’re right. But I like seeing you like this, all domesticated and such.”

I look up, meeting his gaze, and the intensity in his eyes is almost too much. There’s something there—something I’m not ready to face. He’s so close—close enough to kiss. For a moment, I actually consider it. But then he releases my hands and steps back with a smirk, and the spell is broken.

“Good luck with that,” he says, nodding to the dough before rinsing his hands and heading out of the kitchen, leaving me breathless and more frustrated than ever.

As the days go by, it becomes harder and harder to ignore the tension building between us. Every touch, every look—it’s like we’re dancing around something we both feel, but neither of us will admit. And even though I tell myself he’s just being kind, just making up for the past, there’s a part of me that can’t help but wonder. Wonder if maybe, just maybe, he sees me as something more.

Late one night, after a long shift at the bookstore, I come home to find him waiting for me in the living room, a half-empty glass of whiskey in his hand. He looks up as I enter, a slow smile spreading across his face.

He studies me for a moment, his gaze lingering, and there’s this look in his eyes of something vulnerable, something real. It makes my heart race, my pulse skip. And as he stands up, moving to stand in front of me, I realize I’m holding my breath.

“Isadora,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost a whisper. “We don’t have to keep pretending, you know.”

My heart thuds painfully in my chest, and I peer up at him through my lashes. “I don’t know what you mean,” I say, but my voice wavers, betraying me.

He steps closer with his eyes locked on mine, and I feel that familiar pull, the undeniable attraction that’s been simmering between us for weeks. “Don’t you?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

I swallow, my heart racing. For a moment, I almost close the distance between us. But then I remember who he is, who we were, and I take a step back, breaking the spell.

“Goodnight, Alec,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.

He watches me for another long moment before he nods. “Goodnight, Isadora.”

As I turn and walk away, I can feel his eyes on me, and I know, without a doubt, that whatever this is between us? It’s a lot more complicated than I anticipated.