Page 19 of His Problem Alpha

Alex

T he sound of retching from the bathroom rips through the quiet of the apartment, a raw, ugly noise that short-circuits my brain. My half-finished dinner is forgotten on the counter. I’m moving before I’ve even processed it, my heart slamming against my ribs. “Devon?”

No answer except another round of violent heaving.

“Devon?” I knock once, sharp and urgent, my knuckles rapping against the wood. “I’m coming in.”

I don’t wait for permission. The door isn’t locked—a mistake Devon never makes—and that alone sends a primal alarm bell screaming through my head.

He’s on his knees on the bathmat, forehead pressed against the porcelain rim of the toilet, his shoulders shaking with the force of his sickness.

The acrid smell of vomit fills the small space, but underneath it is something else.

Something different about his usual citrus-and-sunshine scent.

It’s… richer. Deeper. My alpha brain registers the change before I can consciously identify it, a low hum of recognition deep in my bones.

“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice low as I crouch beside him, my knees cracking on the cold tile. “What’s going on?”

He flinches when my hand lands on his back, but doesn’t pull away. His skin is clammy and cool through the thin fabric of his t-shirt.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles into the toilet bowl, not lifting his head. “Just… give me a minute.”

“Bullshit.” The word comes out sharper than I intend, a low alpha growl I can’t control. I soften my tone, forcing the instinct down. “You’re not fine. You’ve been off all week. What is it?”

He finally lifts his head, and the sight of his face—pale, sweaty, with dark circles under his eyes that look like bruises—hits me like a physical blow.

The usual fire in his eyes is gone, replaced by a glassy sheen of pure terror.

That’s when I know this is serious. My hands itch to pull him close, to wrap him in my scent until whatever’s hurting him goes away.

Instead, I wet a washcloth with cool water from the tap and press it gently against the back of his neck.

“Thanks,” he whispers, his eyes closing briefly as he leans into the cool dampness.

I give into the instinct, leaning closer without thinking, my nose just inches from his throat, trying to catch that strange new note in his scent. He jerks back, eyes flying open, wide with panic.

“What are you doing?”

“Sorry.” I pull back, embarrassed by my own feral behavior. “You smell… different.”

Something flickers across his face—fear, resignation, something I can’t quite read. He slumps back against the cold wall of the tub, the fight draining out of him completely.

“Alex,” he says, his voice so quiet I have to lean in to hear him over the hum of the bathroom fan. “I think… I might be pregnant.”

His words knock the air from my lungs. I can’t breathe, can’t think straight. The room tilts, the white tiles of the floor swimming in my vision. Pregnant? Devon might be carrying my child?

“What?” It’s all I can manage, the word a strangled croak.

Devon wraps his arms around his middle, a protective gesture that makes something primal and possessive roar to life deep inside my chest. “My cycle’s late.

I’ve been sick every morning this week. And today, at the meeting, when Richard mentioned Lawson being a father, I just… I don’t know. It hit me.”

My throat is dry as sandpaper. My heart is hammering so hard I can feel the frantic pulse in my fingertips. “How late?”

“A week.” He won’t meet my eyes, his gaze fixed on a crack in the tile. “I’ve never been late before. Not like this.”

A week late. I lost control and knotted him without protection, lost in the desperate, primal need to claim him, to make him mine. My mind races, calculating dates, possibilities. The room feels too small suddenly, the walls closing in.

A baby. My baby. Our baby.

My chest tightens, my lungs refusing to work.

Cold sweat breaks out on my forehead. A child.

The ultimate responsibility. The ultimate vulnerability.

I see flashes—tiny fingers gripping mine.

Trusting eyes looking up at me. A small, fragile body I could fail to protect. Just like Ethan. God, just like Ethan.

But underneath the panic, something else pulses through me—hot and possessive. Pride. Joy. My chest swells with it before shame rushes in, cold and sickening. How can I feel happy about this when I’m so fucking terrified?

“Alex?” Devon’s voice pulls me back. He’s watching me warily, like he’s bracing for me to bolt out the door. “Say something. Please.”

I swallow hard, trying to pull it together, for him. “We need to be sure,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “We need a test.”

He nods, a flicker of relief crossing his face. Maybe he expected me to run. Maybe part of me still wants to.

“I can go get one,” I offer. The words feel monumental, a commitment that goes far beyond a simple trip to the pharmacy.

“You don’t have to—” he starts, but I cut him off.

“I want to.” And it’s the truest thing I’ve said all day. This isn’t just his to face. Whatever’s happening, we’re in it together. “Stay here. Rest. I’ll be back soon.”

He looks surprised, then his shoulders slump with a gratitude that twists something in my gut. “Okay.”

I help him to the bedroom first, settling him on my bed— our bed, because my room has become our room without either of us acknowledging it. He looks small and fragile against the dark sheets, and the sight makes my chest ache with a fierce, protective urge.

“I’ll be quick,” I promise, pressing a kiss to his forehead without thinking. His skin is cool and slightly damp. “Try to drink some water.”

Outside, the evening air is crisp and bites at my exposed skin, but I barely feel it. My mind is a chaotic storm as I walk to the nearest pharmacy, my feet moving on autopilot. A baby. The word echoes in my head, terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

Before Ethan died, I’d sometimes imagine having kids someday. After the funeral, I packed those thoughts away with his clothes—things I had no right to touch again. But Devon… Devon makes me want things I’ve spent the last six years convincing myself I can never have.

The pharmacy’s fluorescent lights buzz overhead, making everything look sickly green.

I find the right aisle and freeze, staring at the rows of boxes with their cheerful, smiling couples.

So small, so innocuous. Just a piece of plastic that could change our entire lives.

Digital or analog? Early result? Two pack or one?

My hand shakes as I reach out. I grab two different brands. One for the hope, one for the fear.

While waiting in line, I see a young family a few feet away. The alpha is patiently crouching down, explaining something to a small child in a shopping cart who looks up at him with total adoration. The sight is a gut punch, a vision of a future I both crave and feel I would utterly destroy.

“Sir?” The clerk’s voice snaps me back. I fumble with my wallet, my credit card clattering to the counter. My face burns as I scoop it up. She rings up the tests, her expression a mask of bored indifference. To her, I’m just another customer. Not an alpha whose entire world is shifting on its axis.

“Good luck,” she says as she hands me the bag, her voice flat. It sounds like a judgment.

The walk back feels longer. With each step, I’m moving toward a future I can’t predict. A future where I might be responsible for another life. Where I might have the chance to get it right this time. Or the chance to fail all over again.

Devon is sitting up when I get back, clutching a glass of water with both hands. His knuckles are white against the clear glass. His eyes lock onto the pharmacy bag as soon as I enter the room.

“That was fast,” he says, his voice steadier now.

“I ran.” I didn’t, but it feels like I did, my heart still pounding in my chest.

I hand him the bag, our fingers brushing. The contact sends a jolt through me—this is the person who might be carrying my child. The thought is so overwhelming I have to look away.

“I got two,” I explain, my voice rough. “Different brands. Just to be sure.”

He nods, pulling out one of the boxes. His hands are steady as he reads the instructions, steadier than mine would be. “It says to pee on the stick and wait three minutes.”

“Simple enough.” Nothing about this is simple.

He stands, clutching the box like a lifeline. “I’ll… be right back.”

“Do you want me to—” I start, not sure what I’m offering. To come with him? To hold his hand while he pees on a stick?

“No.” He shakes his head quickly, his eyes wide. “I’ve got it. Just… wait here.”

The bathroom door closes with a soft click that sounds like a gunshot in the quiet apartment. I sink onto the edge of the bed, my legs suddenly unable to support my weight.

Three minutes. One hundred and eighty seconds that stretch into an eternity.

I can’t stay still. I pace the length of the room, my worn boots silent on the hardwood floor. My mind spirals. If he’s pregnant, everything changes. Our “arrangement” becomes a lifetime commitment. A child. A family. The ultimate vulnerability.

I see my dad’s empty bottles lining the kitchen counter after Ethan died. Mom’s hollow eyes when she found me packing for college. “You’re leaving too?” she’d asked, her voice breaking. I’d failed them both, just like I’d failed him.

But then I see it—Devon with his stomach rounded, carrying my child. A baby with his sharp eyes and my dark hair. Tiny fingers. First steps. A family I never thought I could have.

The bathroom door remains closed. I check my phone. Four minutes. My heart is a frantic drum in my throat.

What if he’s not pregnant? A wave of relief so intense it’s dizzying washes over me. We can go back to normal. Back to our arrangement. Back to pretending this isn’t more than physical.