Page 9 of The Alpha Under My Bed (The Chosen #1)

Nine

ELEANOR

Warmth clung to my skin, heavy and suffocating, but there was something else beneath it—something wrong. My body ached in a way that felt too deep, too settled, like I had been wrung out and left to dry, my limbs sluggish and uncooperative as I shifted under the blankets. But the second I moved, a sharp awareness slammed into me.

I wasn’t alone in my body.

I stilled, breath catching in my throat as I felt it—the thick, unyielding pressure sitting deep inside me. A slow roll of my hips did nothing to dislodge it, nothing to lessen the persistent stretch. It didn’t shift, didn’t ease, just held firm.

A tremor shot through me as I slid a hand beneath the blankets, my fingers moving in frantic desperation to confirm what my body was already screaming. Metal.

My breath hitched sharply.

Cold, solid steel encased my hips, snug against my skin, locked in place. I swallowed hard, pushing against it, searching for a seam, a clasp—anything that would release it. But there was nothing. No latch. No keyhole. No way to take it off. No way out.

A chastity belt.

I sucked in a shuddering breath, my fingers shaking as I traced the edges of the smooth, unyielding metal, hoping—praying—that I was wrong. But then my fingers slipped lower, and I felt it through the thin slit of the metal.

A silicone plug.

A solid, intrusive weight buried deep inside me, holding something in. The realization hit like a punch to the gut, my stomach twisting violently as a broken sound tore from my throat.

I wasn’t just locked up.

I was filled.

Tears burned the edges of my vision as I scrambled for my phone, knocking over the lamp in my desperation to call the police—call anyone . My fingers fumbled against the screen, swiping too fast, my breath coming in ragged gasps as I focused on the single unread message waiting for me.

Unknown Number: I don’t think you’re ready to know my identity yet, but I couldn’t wait to claim you. I’m sorry, baby. I’ll make this up to you, I swear. You will know everything about me and us soon, and when you’re ready, I promise. You’re my mate. You’re my person.

My blood ran cold.

Mate. Mine.

A sharp, uncontrollable tremor shot through me as my hand flew to my throat. My fingers brushed over tender skin, raised and swollen.

A bond mark.

No. No, no, no.

I twisted, shoving back the blankets, my entire body recoiling at the realization sinking its claws into my chest.

I had been bonded.

Bred.

My mate had already taken me, claimed me, and locked me up.

I forced in a breath, but my lungs refused to expand. The walls of my apartment pressed in tight. My body wasn’t mine anymore. My heat had come and gone, and I had woken up in someone else’s aftermath.

And then I saw it.

A thick white envelope, waiting on my nightstand.

Terror crawled up my spine, but my fingers were already reaching for it, numb and unfeeling as I tore it open. A stack of letters spilled onto my lap, carefully folded, edges worn with time.

I unfolded the first one. My breath stalled.

Dated three years ago.

My heart stuttered.

Three years.

I wasn’t ready, but I read it anyway.

“I know you don’t know me yet. But you will. You’re mine, Ellie. I’ve waited so long to claim you. To be inside you. To make you mine in every way an omega can belong to their alpha.

You don’t remember me holding you during your heats, but I was there. I’ve always been there. Taking care of you. Fucking you. Making sure no other alpha ever gets the chance to ruin you.

You’re meant to be filled by me. Not them.”

The letter slipped from my fingers as nausea churned in my stomach, thick and suffocating. My breath came in short, sharp gasps. I grabbed another one—three months ago.

“You were so beautiful this time. I almost told you. Almost let you wake up with me still inside you, my knot still keeping you exactly where you belong. But I know it’s not time yet. You need to trust me first. You need to be ready for me.

One more heat, baby. Maybe then you’ll be ready to know.”

I slapped a hand over my mouth, a broken sob ripping through me.

This wasn’t real.

It couldn’t be real.

My fingers shook violently as I shoved the letters aside, my breath coming in quick, broken gasps.

And then I saw the box.

Small. Wrapped carefully. Like a gift.

I didn’t want to look.

But I couldn’t stop myself.

The lid lifted easily.

Polaroids .

Neatly stacked. Organized. Waiting.

I didn’t want to see. I didn’t want to know.

But I did.

The first was from three years ago.

I was curled in my nest, flushed and sweat-slicked, my lips parted in sleep. And behind me, half-hidden in the shadows, was him.

A masked figure with a black hoodie covering his upper half, but below the waist, completely bare. His body curled around mine, arms locked around my waist, holding me close like I belonged there.

A strangled cry tore from my throat.

I flipped to the next.

Another heat. Another picture.

This time, his gloved hand gripped my jaw, tilting my face toward the camera, my heat-drunk expression blurred with exhaustion and pleasure.

I gagged, choking on a sob as I grabbed the last one.

The most recent.

My entire body seized.

I was on my back, sprawled over his chest, his arms locked around me, his fingers pressing bruises into my hips.

And his mask.

That bone-white mask, grinning, empty, hollow black eyes watching the camera.

I was knotted on his cock.

Completely bonded.

Bred.

And I looked happy.

A blissed-out Omega, content, satisfied, marked.

The photo slipped from my numb fingers, landing softly on the bed beside the letters that told the story of my stolen life.

I belonged to him.

And I didn’t even know who the fuck he was.

The scent of coffee and something warm, buttery, and sweet drifted through the air, cutting through the panic still clawing at my throat. I barely registered the moment I moved, my body slow, numb, and unsteady as I turned toward the nightstand.

A tray sat there, carefully arranged like a fucking offering.

A steaming cup of coffee—the scent familiar—exactly how I took it, down to the precise amount of cream. A plate of food, still warm, my favorite breakfast. Crisp toast, scrambled eggs, slices of fruit. A small jar of honey with the lid popped just slightly, as if he had known I’d reach for it.

And beside it, a sleek black card.

I stared at it, breath stalling in my throat, my pulse pounding in my ears.

I already knew what it would say before I even reached for it.

My fingers trembled as I picked it up, turning it over.

Eleanor Hart.

My name, embossed in silver.

A credit card.

My stomach twisted violently as I turned back to the tray, to the food, to the fucking comfort left for me like I was supposed to just accept this.

I reached for the note tucked beneath the cup.

The handwriting was elegant, careful, deliberate.

“You don’t have to worry about anything anymore. I’ll take care of you now. Everything you need, I’ll provide. Just focus on healing. Eat, baby. You’ll need your strength. — Your Mate.”

The note slipped from my fingers.

I staggered back, gasping. My legs gave out.

I barely made it to the couch before my knees buckled, collapsing into the cushions as a sob ripped through me.

This wasn’t real.

It couldn’t be real.

A sharp, hiccuping breath rattled through my lungs. I pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes, trying to ground myself, trying to breathe, but nothing worked.

I was trapped.

I was bonded.

A bond was forever.

A bond was forever.

The words slammed into me again and again, ringing in my head like a cruel, inescapable truth. My alpha had already claimed me.

And he wasn’t done.

He’d planned this—thought it through down to the last fucking detail.

The food, the card, the bond mark on my throat.

The chastity belt keeping me full.

I couldn’t stop shaking. My body wouldn’t listen.

My breath came too fast, too shallow, panic crawling up my throat like a living thing—something with claws, something shoving me toward the edge of breaking.

I couldn’t do this.

I couldn’t.

I had to get it off.

I had to.

My hands scrambled for the belt, fingers yanking, pulling, clawing at the unyielding metal. There had to be a way—there had to be a seam, a release, something.

But it wouldn’t budge.

It didn’t even creak.

A choked sound tore from my lips, tears burning down my cheeks.

I grabbed the first thing I could find—a pair of scissors from the side table, the metal shaking in my grip as I shoved the tip beneath the belt, desperate to pry it off.

The steel didn’t give.

The scissors bent.

I threw them across the room, a strangled cry bursting from my chest.

No. No, no, no.

I lunged for the kitchen, my feet bare against the floor, vision swimming. I tore open the drawers, yanking out knives, metal tools, anything with a fucking edge.

A sharp paring knife trembled in my grip as I wedged it beneath the belt, forcing the tip against the seam. I pushed—hard.

Nothing.

I pressed harder, hands slick with sweat. The knife snapped.

I screamed.

A raw, broken sob tore out of me as I flung the knife to the floor. I slumped back against the counter, my body racked with heaving, desperate breaths.

It wasn’t just locked.

It was unbreakable.

No sharp edge, no amount of force was going to get it off.

A horrible, wretched sob burned in my throat as I pressed my hands over my face.

I couldn’t escape this. I couldn’t undo what had already been done.

Tears slid down my cheeks, hot and fast.

I pressed a hand to my stomach, feeling the steady, aching weight inside me.

I choked, a fresh wave of nausea curling in my gut. My hands slid down, pressing against the belt again, as if I could will it to disappear—to undo everything.

I let out a soft, shaking breath.

I needed Mal.

The thought hit so fast, so sudden, that it made my breath hitch.

Mal.

I needed him.

But what the fuck could I even say?

I was bonded.

I was claimed.

A bond was forever.

I sucked in a shaky, rattling breath, my chest aching with it. I wanted to go to him, to break down in his arms like I had a thousand times before.

But this time was different.

This time, there was nothing he could do.

I couldn’t un-bond.

I couldn’t take it back.

My alpha had already won.

A small, shaking sob broke free as I curled in on myself, wrapping my arms tight around my middle like I could hold the shattered pieces of myself together.

I was his now.

No matter how much I wanted to pretend otherwise.

I wasn’t sure how long I stayed there, hunched on the floor, breath coming in short, sharp bursts that didn’t feel like enough. My fingers pressed against the cold steel between my legs, as if sheer will alone could undo what had already been done.

It didn’t budge.

A tremor racked through me. I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing down the panic clawing at my throat.

I couldn’t stay here. Couldn’t let this break me.

I pushed myself upright, every motion sluggish, my limbs heavy with exhaustion. My heat had drained me, left my muscles aching with a dull, bone-deep soreness. But I went through the motions anyway.

Shower. Clothes. Pretend I could fix this.

By the time I stepped outside, the cold air slapped against my overheated skin, making me shudder. The walk to the shop felt longer than usual, each step punctuated by the dull, persistent weight between my hips—a cruel reminder of the night before.

I wasn’t ready for this.

But I needed normalcy. So I kept walking.

By the time I reached the shop, my fingers were stiff with cold, my breath curling in soft white tendrils in the morning air. The bell above the door jingled softly as I stepped inside. I exhaled shakily, letting the scent of the shop ground me—warm wood, aged paper, faint traces of perfume clinging to the air.

Familiar. Safe. Real.

The shop was quiet, the early light spilling through the front windows in soft, golden streaks. I focused on that. On routine. On the things I could still control.

Step one—flip the sign.

Step two—sort the orders.

Step three—pretend last week never happened.

The morning passed in a steady, mindless blur. I kept my hands moving—stacking receipts, filing new orders, adjusting inventory like it actually mattered. Customers came and went, their voices blending into the background hum of the shop.

I barely noticed the time slipping by until my stomach twisted sharply, a hollow ache curling deep inside me.

Lunch. Right.

I ignored it. Instead, I busied myself behind the counter, wiping down the glass display case, triple-checking the stock list even though I already knew it by heart. Anything to keep my mind from spiraling. Anything to keep myself from thinking about?—

The bell jingled.

I turned automatically, expecting a customer. Expecting Claudia.

But it wasn’t.

It was Mal.

He stood just inside the doorway, his broad frame backlit by the pale afternoon light. His shoulders were loose, his stance deceptively relaxed, hands tucked into the pockets of his worn jacket. But his eyes—his dark, steady eyes—were already on me.

Something flickered low in my gut, warm and instinctive. Almost like relief.

I didn’t want to pick that apart too much.

Mal was safe. Mal was home. He had been a steady, unshakable presence in my life for years.

So why did it suddenly feel like I couldn’t breathe?

I set the perfume bottle down a little too hard, the glass clinking sharply against the shelf. My fingers twitched, but I forced them still, dragging my gaze away from him.

“Hey,” I muttered, voice not quite steady.

Mal didn’t answer at first. His gaze moved over me—slow, assessing, lingering for a second too long before he exhaled quietly.

“You eat yet?” His voice was steady, low, like he already knew the answer.

I blinked, caught off guard. The question felt too casual, too normal, too much like something I didn’t deserve.

I hesitated before answering, only just realizing I couldn’t remember if I’d eaten today at all. Maybe I’d grabbed something small this morning—maybe not. It felt like a lifetime ago.

“I think I had a granola bar earlier.” The words felt weak, uncertain, and I hated how they sounded coming out of my mouth.

Mal’s jaw shifted—not quite a clench, but close.

He lifted the bag in his hand slightly, like it was an afterthought. Like he just happened to have it.

“Brought you lunch.”

My stomach clenched.

Something warm pressed against the back of my ribs, curling up my spine, tight and unfamiliar. My throat felt thick, my chest aching in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion.

I forced a small smile, stepping closer, the scent of warm bread curling into the space between us.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Mal just shrugged.

Of course he shrugged. He never made a big deal out of these things. Never called attention to the way he took care of me. Never let me thank him properly.

I didn’t know why that made my stomach knot even tighter.

He reached out, pressing the bag into my hands, his fingers warm against mine—rough with calluses, solid and steady. My own hand looked small against his, delicate, trembling just slightly as I curled my fingers around the weight of the food.

I swallowed, gripping the paper bag a little tighter, grounding myself in the warmth of it.

“Thanks, Mal.”

His head tilted slightly. “Yeah.”

Silence stretched between us—something heavier than usual, something that made my skin prickle. I shifted under the weight of it, hyper-aware of the belt locked around my waist, the unyielding pressure inside me. My body wasn’t mine anymore.

Mal’s gaze flicked to my face, then lower. Something flickered across his expression before his brows pinched slightly.

“You look pale.”

I went still.

It wasn’t a question.

I opened my mouth to brush him off, to tell him I was fine—that it was just the long workday—but my throat felt tight.

I couldn’t tell him that I felt off, like I wasn’t all there, like I was half out of my body, floating somewhere between reality and the waking nightmare I had found myself in.

I couldn’t tell him that I woke up with a stranger’s bond mark on my neck, locked in a belt I couldn’t remove.

I forced a laugh, adjusting the bag in my hands, fighting the tremor threatening to creep into my voice.

“I’m fine, Mal.”

His jaw shifted again, his dark eyes lingering—a slow inhale expanding his chest. A calculated pause.

Then, finally?—

“Let me drive you home after work.”

My stomach flipped.

I opened my mouth to protest, to insist that I was fine, that I could walk—but his head tilted just slightly, the weight of his stare pinning me in place. It wasn’t demanding, wasn’t forceful—but it wasn’t a request.

I swallowed hard.

Mal was always protective. He had always offered to take care of me. But something about this moment—about the way his words curled around my ribs and settled deep in my chest—felt different.

I should tell him no. I should pretend like everything was fine.

But I didn’t.

I nodded, voice barely above a whisper.

“Okay.”

Mal didn’t look relieved.

Just satisfied.

He nodded once, short, like that was all he needed to hear, before turning for the door. He didn’t say anything else, didn’t wait for me to say anything either. Just left, his presence suddenly too much and not enough all at once.

I stared down at the bag in my hands, something tight and desperate curling in my chest, something cold and unsettling settling in my bones.

I wasn’t sure if it was relief—or something worse.