Page 2 of His Problem Alpha
"Sure," Kole says, smirking into his mug. "Very annoying. And it's very annoying how your voice gets all breathy when you describe how annoying he is."
"My voice does not get breathy," I protest, my voice coming out embarrassingly breathy. "I hate him. Full stop. End of story."
"Of course you do," Lawson says, in that infuriatingly gentle tone that suggests the exact opposite.
"I do! He's the worst! He's messy and inconsiderate and arrogant and—"
"Hot?" Kole supplies, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
"Exactly! Wait—no!" I grab a decorative pillow and hurl it at his head. He catches it easily. "You're the worst friends ever."
"We're your only friends," Lawson points out, not unkindly.
"A fact I question on a daily basis." I check the time on my phone and let out a long, weary sigh. "I should head back. I need to salvage what's left of my workday and probably disinfect something."
"Try not to murder your very annoying, not-at-all-attractive roommate," Kole calls as I gather my things.
"No promises," I mutter, but the words feel hollow.
---
The apartment is mercifully quiet when I return. Too quiet. A prickle of suspicion crawls up my spine. I pause in the doorway, listening. I've learned that silence from Alex's room usually means one of two things: he's either asleep, or he's plotting something particularly disruptive.
I tiptoe past his closed door and hear the faint, telltale sounds of his audio software—the soft clicks and low hums that mean he's deep in a mixing session. The one he said had a deadline tonight.
A petty, vindictive idea pops into my head.
It's childish. It's unprofessional. It's exactly what he deserves.
I glance at the thick black power strip where all of his expensive equipment is plugged in. The cord snakes out from under his door and across the hallway—a blatant fire hazard I've complained about at least twenty times. One accidental trip, one clumsy stumble over that cord, and...
I shouldn't.
I really, really shouldn't.
I do.
My foot catches the cord with the surgical precision of a trained assassin, yanking it clean from the wall socket. Suddenly there's a silence so complete it's almost deafening.
Three. Two. One.
"FUCK!" The roar from behind his door is visceral, followed by a sickening crash that suggests something very expensive just met a very untimely end.
I sprint to my room, closing the door just as his flies open. Heavy, furious footsteps thunder down the hall. I have approximately two seconds to decide between pretending to be asleep (unconvincing) or facing the music (terrifying).
The pounding on my door makes the decision for me. It's not a knock; it's a full-on assault.
"Open the fucking door, Devon!" Alex's voice has dropped an octave, that dangerous alpha rumble that makes something primitive in my hindbrain want to either submit or run for the hills.
I take a deep breath, smooth my expression into one of pure innocence, and open the door. "Problem?"
Alex fills the entire doorway, a six-foot-two monument to barely contained fury. His eyes are dark, pupils dilated with rage, and there's a muscle ticking violently in his jaw that I've never seen before. He's breathing hard, his broad chest rising and falling under the thin fabric of his t-shirt.
"You unplugged my equipment," he says. It’s not a question. Each word is a piece of ice, precise and deadly quiet.
"Did I?" I give him my most innocent look. "Must have tripped on that fire hazard you leave strewn across the hallway. The one I've asked you to fix, what, a dozen times now?"
He takes a step closer, forcing me to back up into the sanctuary of my room. "I lost three hours of work."
"That sounds like a you problem." My voice is steady, but my heart is hammering against my ribs. I refuse to be intimidated, even as my back hits the wall and Alex keeps advancing until there's barely six inches of air between us. "Maybe you should save more often."
"You did it on purpose." He plants one hand on the wall right beside my head, the sound a sharp crack in the tense silence. He's caged me in.
The air between us changes, crackling with something that makes the fine hairs on my arms stand on end.
He's so close now. Too close. I can smell him—not just the bitter coffee he's always drinking, but something sharper, like ozone from his overheated equipment, and under it all, something earthy and warm that feels ancient and undeniably alpha.
It scrambles my brain, short-circuiting my anger with something far more dangerous.
It's just rage. It has to be. Just pure, unadulterated rage making my heart race and my breath catch in my throat.
"Prove it," I challenge, tilting my chin up to meet his furious gaze.
Big mistake. His eyes lock onto mine, green and blazing and so intense my stomach does a complicated, sickening flip.
"You're a real piece of work, you know that?
" His voice drops lower, a rough growl that vibrates through the space between us.
"Acting all superior with your fancy clients and your sarcastic comments.
" He leans in, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
"Looking down on my 'noise' while you sit around making pretty pictures for corporations.
At least my noise is honest. You sell lies for a living. "
The insult lands like a physical blow. It's not just about my job; it's about my integrity, my art. It's a direct shot at the one thing I'm proud of, and it hits its mark perfectly.
"At least I contribute something to the world," I manage to snap back, my voice thin. "What do you do besides hide in your room and make everyone around you miserable?"
He leans even closer, and I press myself harder against the unyielding wall. "You have no idea what I do."
"I know you're a selfish asshole who doesn't care about anyone but himself."
"And you're a pretentious prick who thinks he's better than everyone."
We're practically nose to nose now, both breathing hard, our angry breaths mingling in the charged space.
I can feel the heat radiating off his body in waves, see the tiny flecks of gold swimming in the furious green of his eyes, count each dark, thick eyelash.
His scent is overwhelming this close, wrapping around me, sinking into my skin.
My body reacts without permission, a deep, traitorous flush of warmth spreading through my belly that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with him.
This is not happening. I am not attracted to this disaster of a human being.
"Back off," I manage to say, hating how breathless and weak I sound.
Something shifts in his expression—a flicker of awareness, maybe recognition of the electric current humming between us.
For one heart-stopping, terrifying moment, I think he might do something truly insane, like close that final, impossible distance.
My stomach drops in what I refuse to admit is disappointment when he doesn't.
Instead, he pushes off the wall with a rough sigh, the spell breaking. He steps back, leaving cold air where his oppressive heat had been. I almost sway without his presence holding me in place.
"Stay away from my equipment," he says, his voice rough around the edges. "Next time, I won't be so nice."
"This was you being nice?" I try for sarcasm, but it comes out as a squeak.
He doesn't answer. He just gives me one last burning look, a look that seems to see right through me, before he turns and stalks back to his room.
I stay frozen against the wall, listening to his door slam shut, trying to make sense of what just happened.
My heart is pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs, my skin feels too tight, and there's a strange, hollow ache deep in my gut that I refuse to examine too closely.
A lingering, feverish heat remains under my skin, a phantom echo of Alex's proximity that had absolutely nothing to do with attraction.
It's just rage. It has to be.