Page 1 of The Alpha Under My Bed (The Chosen #1)

One

ELEANOR

I should have known better.

That was the worst part. I did know better.

But hope was a stubborn thing, curling in my chest like the last flicker of a candle, even when I told myself it had already burned out.

I ran my thumb over the rim of my mug, watching the ripples in my untouched latte. The café had started to empty out, chairs flipping onto tables one by one, the scent of espresso fading beneath the sharp bite of disinfectant.

I told myself I’d wait five more minutes—then I’d leave.

I wouldn’t check my phone again.

Wouldn’t glance at the door every time the bell chimed.

Wouldn’t crane my neck to scan the street through the café window, looking for a face I had only ever seen in photos.

No more waiting.

But I was already reaching for my phone before I finished the thought.

The message thread was still open.

Me: Hey! I saw we matched. 97%? That’s insane. I’d love to meet up!

Him: Right? Can’t argue with science. You free this weekend?

It had felt easy.

Like fate without the waiting game.

A 97% scent compatibility wasn’t just high—it was practically a guarantee.

I had submitted my scent sample weeks ago, like thousands of other unbonded omegas, letting The Compatibility Index do its work. The lab analyzed scent compounds, tested compatibility rates, and ran genetic markers against pheromone data to scientifically optimize the perfect match.

TCI had changed everything.

It took away the risk, the endless hoping, the agonizing doubt. You didn’t have to wander the world waiting for your fated mate, hoping your instincts led you to the right person.

The right person—or people—were already out there.

And now we had the science to prove it.

Which meant this match—this alpha—should have been mine.

I exhaled slowly, pressing the heel of my palm into my sternum to ease the tightness spreading through my ribs. My perfume curled around me, floral and warm, carefully blended to enhance my natural scent. I had dabbed oil at my pulse points, brushed the scent through my hair, even pressed a little into the hollow of my throat.

Now it felt too strong.

Cloying.

Like a joke I had played on myself.

I lifted my mug, only to find the latte had gone cold, its once-fluffy foam long since melted away. The scent of vanilla and cinnamon had faded, leaving behind something dull, something stale—like the last traces of warmth slipping through my fingers, much like my optimism.

The café had emptied out, the once-lively chatter now replaced by a heavy stillness. Only the distant hum of the dishwasher in the back and the occasional shuffle of shoes against the tiled floor remained. The rich aroma of coffee had been overtaken by the sharp tang of citrus disinfectant, a sterile contrast to what once felt inviting. Every time the door swung open, a gust of cold air slithered inside, gnawing away at what little warmth remained.

And still, I waited.

Maybe he got busy.

Maybe he got sick.

Maybe he was like every other alpha and pack I’d matched with in the last six months—interested at first, eager even—but the second we set a time, set a place? Gone.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

TCI didn’t get it wrong .

It couldn’t get it wrong.

And yet, here I was. Again.

I wrapped my arms around myself, pressing my nails into the fabric of my sweater as the barista wiped down the counter. Her gaze flicked to me, lips pressing into something that wasn’t quite a frown, wasn’t quite pity, but it made heat creep up the back of my neck anyway.

I scraped my chair back before she could say anything, reaching for my coat.

The bell above the door chimed as I stepped outside.

The cold air hit me all at once, sharp and unforgiving.

The street smelled like woodsmoke and damp pavement, the distant scent of pine mixing with the lingering warmth of vanilla beans from the bakery next door. I could hear laughter from somewhere down the block, the soft rumble of an engine starting, the faintest echo of music drifting through an open window.

The world kept moving, unfazed by the fact that my night had unraveled.

My arms curled tighter around myself as I started walking home.

I pulled my coat tighter around myself, hating the way my perfume still clung to my skin—too warm, too sweet—an echo of a night that never happened.

I should have taken another route home.

Should have gone the long way.

But my feet carried me down the usual path, boots clicking against the pavement, a shiver working its way down my spine as a gust of wind cut through the thin knit of my sweater.

Then I saw it.

The glow of the garage.

The light spilled onto the pavement, catching on scattered wrenches and the gleam of chrome, the unmistakable scent of oil and burnt rubber curling through the air.

And standing in the middle of it, one hand braced on the frame of a custom bike, was Mal.

Of course he was still awake.

The tightness in my chest twisted, winding sharp and unrelenting.

I slowed my steps, but it was pointless—he had already seen me.

Mal wiped his hands on a rag, but he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched.

My boots scraped against the pavement as I crossed the street, but I barely registered the sound. The cool amber glow from the shop framed the sharp cut of his jaw, his hood drawn loosely over dark hair.

I hadn’t even reached the sidewalk before he tilted his head, his gaze flicking over me, taking me in like he already knew.

“Sweetheart.”

The word hit harder than the wind.

A single word. Just that.

But it was enough.

My throat tightened as I stepped onto the edge of the driveway. Mal dropped the rag onto his workbench and met me halfway, his hands sliding over my arms, then higher, cupping my face, thumbs tracing the curve of my cheekbones.

Rough fingertips. Warm palms. Solid. Steady.

His touch was never gentle. It was deliberate. Grounding. The kind of touch that didn’t just hold me together—it pressed the cracks back into place.

He studied my face for a moment longer, then sighed.

“Another one?”

I let out a laugh—thin, brittle. It barely sounded like me.

I shook my head, tried to brush it off, but the movement was slow, my shoulders locked too tight, the heat behind my ribs burning too sharp.

And Mal—Mal saw everything.

His grip on my face tightened for just a second before he exhaled, tilting his head.

Then his arms dropped to my waist.

And before I could blink, he yanked me into him.

The breath stuttered from my chest as he crushed me against his hoodie, the scent of smoke and steel, motor oil and something deeper, something sharper, closing around me like a cage.

Not a trap, but a shelter.

I curled into him, my hands bunching into the thick fabric, my fingers pressing into the warmth of his ribs. His arms locked low around my back, one hand sliding up to cup the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair.

I barely registered the fact that his scent didn’t do anything to me.

Didn’t pull. Didn’t settle. Didn’t spark anything deep in my chest the way an alpha’s scent would.

Of course it didn’t. Mal was a beta.

He had always been safe.

Comfortable.

The one person I could trust.

“I’m fine,” I muttered against his chest.

He exhaled, slow and steady.

“You always say that.”

I didn’t answer, because there was nothing to say. Mal had always been there to pick up the pieces. And maybe that was why, even now, I never thought to ask why they kept falling apart in the first place.

The door to Mal’s apartment was already unlocked when we made it to our floor.

I should have said goodnight, walked across the hall, and not let myself fall into this routine again. But my feet carried me inside before I could talk myself out of it.

The loft was warm, the air thick with the scent of old books, leather, and the faintest trace of clove smoke.

It smelled like him.

I barely had time to toe off my shoes before he nudged me toward the couch.

“Sit,” he said. “I’ll make tea.”

I sank into the worn leather, muscles aching as exhaustion curled around my bones. I didn’t realize how heavy my body felt until I was off my feet, the last few hours pressing down all at once.

The possible scent match. The waiting. The rejection.

I stretched my legs, letting my head rest against the back of the couch. From the kitchen, I could hear the soft click of the stove being turned on, the faint rattle of ceramic.

I cracked my eyes open just enough to watch him.

Mal moved with that same effortless ease he always had, pulling two mugs from the shelf and setting them down with a quiet clink. The dark ink of his tattoos peeked from beneath the pushed-up sleeves of his hoodie, stark against his skin.

It was strange, in a way.

Mal had been my best friend for years, but there were moments—moments like this—when I actually let myself see him.

All sharp angles and solid muscle, taller than most betas, broader. He looked like he should have been an alpha.

But he wasn’t.

And maybe that was why I always felt so safe with him.

“You shouldn’t keep doing this to yourself,” Mal said, his voice low.

I sighed, shifting to sit up as he crossed the room, two steaming mugs in hand. He set mine down before settling onto the couch beside me, his presence solid, familiar.

“Doing what?” I asked, curling my fingers around the warmth of my mug.

“Thinking you need one of them.” His arm stretched along the back of the couch, fingers resting just behind my shoulder.

I frowned. “I don’t—Mal, I just… I don’t want to be alone forever.”

“You’re not alone,” he said. Too fast.

I hesitated, glancing at him. His face was unreadable, his fingers tracing absent patterns against the worn leather of the couch.

I swallowed. “It’s not the same.”

For a long moment, he didn’t respond. Then he exhaled, slow and measured, setting his tea down on the coffee table.

“They don’t see you the way I do, Ellie.”

A quiet laugh slipped from my lips. “You’re my best friend, Mal. Of course you see me differently.”

His fingers twitched against his knee before he smiled. “Yeah,” he said after a pause. “I am.”

I stared down at my tea, exhaustion creeping in, the warmth of the room pulling at my senses. My body softened, the weight of the day pressing heavy against me.

Mal shifted beside me, and a second later, I felt the slow, steady slide of his fingers through my hair.

Gentle. Careful.

The warmth, the exhaustion—it all blurred together as I sank deeper into the cushions.

“You should stop looking,” he murmured. “You already have me.”

Or at least, that’s what I thought he said. His voice was so soft, I couldn’t be sure if it was real—or just what I wanted to hear.

I don’t think Mal ever saw me the way I saw him.

But it was such a nice thought, I didn’t want him to correct it.

I just wanted to feel wanted, if only for a little while.

The last thing I remembered was the slow drag of his fingers through my hair, the weight of his arm resting against the couch, and the quiet, steady sound of his breathing as I slipped into sleep.