Page 30 of His Problem Alpha

Devon

" Y ou're going to be an amazing father, you know," Kole says, his voice so full of quiet conviction that my chest tightens, and I have to fight back a fresh wave of tears. I will not cry again. I've done enough crying for one day. For one lifetime.

I stare down at the mug of chamomile tea Raymond insisted I drink—"It settles your stomach, Dev"—and blink hard against the sudden burn in my eyes.

"Thanks," I manage, my voice raw from hours of alternating between rage-filled rants and horrifying, gut-wrenching sobs. My brother's couch cushion still bears the damp evidence of my breakdown. "But I'm not sure 'amazing' is in the cards when I don't even have a place to live."

"You have a place to live," Raymond says firmly from where he's leaning against the kitchenette counter, arms crossed over his chest like he's physically holding back the urge to hunt Alex down and dismember him. "Right here. As long as you need."

His protective energy would be touching if it didn't make me feel like such a fucking failure. Twenty-five years old, pregnant, and crashing on my little brother's couch. Not exactly the independent empire I'd imagined for myself.

"And you can stay with us too," Lawson adds, his arm draped around Kole's shoulders. The casual intimacy of the gesture is a dull ache in my chest. "We've got the guest room all set up, and Noah would love having his cousin around."

The mention of Noah makes my hand drift unconsciously to my still-flat stomach. There's a person in there. A tiny, helpless person who is half me and half... him.

"I appreciate it," I say, and I mean it, even if my voice sounds hollow to my own ears. "But I need to figure this out on my own. I can't just—"

A knock at the door cuts me off. Three sharp, decisive raps that somehow manage to sound both hesitant and determined. We all freeze.

Raymond is the first to move, pushing off the counter with a dangerous glint in his eye. "If that's him, I swear to god—"

"Ray," I warn, but it's weak. Part of me wants to see my brother tear into Alex. The other part…

I don't know what the other part wants. I'm still too raw, too shellshocked to process anything beyond the immediate crisis: I'm pregnant, I'm alone, and the father of my child believes he's cursed.

Raymond yanks the door open with enough force that it bangs against the wall. "You've got a lot of fucking nerve—"

"I know."

The voice stops me cold. It's Alex, but not Alex. Not the cold, distant ghost who walked out on me. Not even the brooding, intense alpha who marked me and claimed me in the heat of passion. This voice is stripped bare, scraped raw, barely recognizable.

I can't see him from my position on the couch, but I can smell him—that familiar coffee-and-leather scent now soured with distress and something else. Something like… desperation.

"I don't deserve to be here," he continues, each word sounding like it's being torn from his throat. "I know that. But I had to come. I had to try."

Raymond doesn't budge from the doorway. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't slam this door in your face."

There's a pause, and then: "I don't have one. You should. I would."

The raw honesty in those words twists something in my chest. My first instinct screams along with Raymond. Slam it. Make him feel an ounce of what I'm feeling. I open my mouth to say it, to tell my brother to get rid of him. But then Raymond shifts, and I see him. And the anger dies in my throat.

He looks like he’s been through a war. His hair is a disaster, his eyes red-rimmed and sunken, his clothes rumpled like he's been sleeping in them. Or not sleeping at all. The walls are gone. All of them. And what’s left is so broken, so utterly stripped of pretense, it stops my heart.

"Raymond," I say, my voice steadier than I expected. "Let him in."

My brother turns to look at me, his expression a mix of concern and disbelief. "Dev, are you sure? After what he—"

"I'm sure." I'm not, not really, but I need to see him. Need to look him in the eye and understand what the hell is happening.

Raymond steps aside reluctantly, and then Alex is there, standing in the doorway. His gaze finds mine instantly, and I can’t breathe when I see how vulnerable he looks. There are no walls. No carefully constructed barriers. Just Alex, stripped down to his core.

"I found the test," he says, the words barely audible. "In the bathroom."

The room goes silent. Kole and Lawson exchange a look, then quietly stand.

"We'll give you guys some space," Lawson says, guiding Kole toward the door. "Call if you need anything."

They slip past Alex, who hasn't moved, hasn't looked away from me. Raymond hovers uncertainly by the door.

"Ray," I say gently. "It's okay. I need to do this."

He frowns, clearly torn between protecting me and respecting my wishes. "I'll be in my room," he finally says, shooting Alex a warning glare. "Shout if you need me to throw him out the window."

Once Raymond's bedroom door clicks shut, it's just us. Alex still hasn't moved from the doorway, like he's afraid to enter without explicit permission. Like he knows he's lost the right to any space I occupy.

"You can come in," I say, setting my mug down on the coffee table. My hands are steady, which surprises me. "But that doesn't mean I want to talk to you."

He nods and takes a single step inside, closing the door behind him. He doesn't approach further, maintaining a careful distance.

"I know," he says. "I know I don't have the right to ask you for anything. Not after what I did."

"Then why are you here?" The question comes out sharper than I intended, but I don't soften it. I can't.

He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Because I had to try. I had to tell you…" He trails off, seeming to gather himself. "I had to tell you that I was wrong. About everything."

I don't respond. I can't. My throat is suddenly too tight.

"I called my parents," he continues, the words coming faster now, like he's afraid if he stops, he'll never start again. "I actually talked to them. I told them everything—about Ethan, about you, about the baby."

I blink, surprised. "You… what?"

"I'm going home tomorrow," he says. "To see them. And I've made an appointment with a therapist. Tuesday at 3 PM." He pulls his wallet out, his hands trembling slightly as he fumbles for a small white business card. "Dr. Melissa Chen. She specializes in grief and trauma."

I stare at the card he's holding out, his fingers shaking. This is… not what I expected. I expected begging, maybe. Excuses, certainly. Not… a concrete plan.

"I know I destroyed us," he continues when I don't speak.

"I ran because I thought I was protecting you, but I was just a coward.

I've been running from everything that matters, and I can't do it anymore.

I don't want to make another tragedy out of the best thing in my life.

" His voice breaks. "Please… don't let me. "

His raw honesty hits me right in the chest. I really look at him, maybe for the first time seeing past the brooding alpha exterior. He’s just… broken. A man who lost his brother, blamed himself, and has been punishing himself.

"Why should I believe you?" I ask, my voice quiet but firm. "Why should I believe this isn't just another moment of panic that will pass as soon as things get hard again?"

He takes a shaky breath. "You shouldn't. I haven't earned that. All I can tell you is that I'm done running. I'm done letting fear rule my life. I'm done punishing myself by hurting the people I—" He stops, swallows. "The people I care about."

He doesn't say "love." The word hangs in the air between us, too frightening, too loaded for either of us to touch.

"Come in," I say finally, gesturing to the armchair across from the couch. "Sit down."

He moves cautiously, lowering himself into the chair like he's afraid it might disappear. His scent is all wrong—distressed, anxious, hopeful. It makes my nose itch.

"I'm keeping this baby," I say, my voice steady even as my heart races. "With or without you. That's non-negotiable."

"I know," he says immediately. "And I want to be there. For both of you. If you'll let me."

I study his face, looking for any sign of the coldness I saw when he walked out. There's nothing but open, raw sincerity.

"It's not that simple," I tell him, anger flaring again. "You can't just say sorry and expect everything to magically fix itself. That's not how this works."

"I know," he repeats, his voice steady despite the tension radiating from him. "I don't expect forgiveness. I just want a chance to prove that I can be better. That I can be someone you and our baby can count on."

When he says "our baby," my chest tightens in a strange, painful way. I push the feeling away, not ready to examine it.

"If—and this is a massive if—I give you that chance," I say carefully, "there would be conditions. Non-negotiable ones."

He leans forward, his eyes never leaving mine. "Anything."

"You go to therapy," I say, ticking off on my fingers. "Not just once. Not just when it's convenient. You commit to it, long-term."

"Yes," he agrees without hesitation. "I've already set up weekly appointments."

"When you feel that urge to run, you talk to me. You don't get to shut me out again. You fight your ghosts with me, not by abandoning me."

His jaw tightens, but he nods. "I promise."

"You have to be all in," I continue, my voice gaining strength. "Not just for me, but for our child. You show up. Every day. Even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard."

"I will," he says, and there's a certainty in his voice I've never heard before. "I promise you, Devon. I promise our baby."

He says it like a vow, heavy with everything he's lost and might gain. Despite myself, something inside me softens, just a fraction.

"I don't trust you," I say bluntly, hating how much I want to. "I can't. Not yet. But…" I take a deep breath, fighting against the part of me that still reaches for him. "I'm willing to give you the chance to earn that trust back. Slowly. On my terms."

The naked hope on his face is almost painful to see. "Thank you," he breathes, like I've given him a gift he never expected to receive. "I won't let you down. Either of you."

He takes a tentative step toward me, then stops, clearly unsure if he's allowed to approach. I don't move, don't invite him closer, but I don't back away either. It's the smallest concession, but from the look on his face, it might as well be everything.

"I'm not promising anything," I warn him. "This isn't forgiveness. This is… a starting point. That's all."

"It's more than I deserve," he says simply.

And as I look at him—this broken, trying man who's finally facing his demons instead of running from them—I think maybe, just maybe, there's hope for us after all.