Page 77 of Fourth Base with the Alpha

“It was only an idea,” she says, pushing up on her elbow, and combing my hair away from my face.

Fuck, but she looks beautiful, with the sunlight pouring in behind her and catching the strands of her dark hair, her eyes so rich they are almost amber.

“My mum used to read meThe Little Prince,” I whisper, closing my eyes against the tangle of her fingers in my hair.

“I never read it.”

I open my eyes. “Really?”

She shakes her head.

“I have a feeling it’s the kind of book you’d love, Cupcake.”

“Can I listen too, then?”

I smile at her. She’s a sneaky so-and-so but I don’t care. She’s maneuvered this conversation around so I’m doing the thing I don’t want to do but need to. As if reading my thoughts she says, “You’ll regret it, Hjalmar, if you don’t spend this time with him.”

“I don’t owe him anything.”

“No, but I’m not saying you should do it for him. I’m saying you should do it for you.”

She kisses the tip of my nose and then, before I can grab her and pull her into bed, she grabs the sheet and scurries from the bed.

My sister’s waiting for us by the back door when we walk back to the house.

“He’s not so good today,” she says with a mixture of sadness and stiffness.

“I’m going up to see him now.”

“Have some breakfast first.” She points towards the table where a pile of pancakes awaits us.

I load a plate, telling Isabella we’ll eat them upstairs and then lead her up the staircase along the hallway and to my old room.

The door is shut.

“My room,” I tell her.

She tears off a piece of pancake dipping it in chocolate sauce. “Exciting.” She waggles her eyebrows and pushes down on the handle, nipping inside before me.

The room smells of stale scent and dust hangs in the air and coats the surface of my old desk and the articles resting on my shelves.

The bed is made up, the same blue and white bed sheets. My old rock posters are still pinned to the walls. And sheet music sits in a pile on the floor.

“I thought he’d change it into a gym or something.”

“It looks like it hasn’t been touched since little teenage Hunter left home,” she teases, bouncing down on the bed and staring around the room. “I can’t believe you left all these things behind.” CDs line one shelf and there’s a pile of music magazines on the desk. An old basketball award sits tarnished on one shelf, a spider web trailing from the rim to the corner. She spots my old teddy bear resting neatly on the center of my pillow. “Including him.” She swoops him up and sits him on her lap. “Is he yours?”

“Yes,” I groan. “I don’t think I left him on the bed like that.”

“Sure, Hunter, sure.” She squishes the soft toy’s belly. His fur is worn and he’s missing an ear, his bead eyes no longer brown. “He’s so cute, how could you just abandon him like that?”

“Because I was eighteen, Isabella. I didn’t need a teddy bear.”

“Everyone needs a teddy bear, don’t they, Mr …”

“Teddy.”

She giggles. “You called your teddy ‘Teddy’. Very original.”