Alphas Like Us (Like Us 3)

Dying to bring him against my chest. I can’t.

I can’t. I hate that I can’t.

“I want to hold you,” I breathe.

His forehead almost touches mine, our lips nearly skimming as he whispers, “You’re holding me.” His husky voice quakes, his hand clutching my jaw. “And my arms are tight around you, and your chest is against my chest.”

Tears scald our eyes, and we breathe and breathe, and I whisper, “You know, my heart is in your hand.”

His lips are agonizingly close. “I hope not. Because then you’d be dead.” He kisses me before I react. Just one tender kiss, leaving me longing for more.

My good hand rises to the back of his neck, our breaths slowing together. I murmur, “Cicero said, ‘The life of the dead is placed on the memories of the living. The love you gave in life keeps people alive beyond their time.’”

Farrow almost smiles. “That one is just okay.”

I eye him. “What’s your favorite then?” I’m sure he can recall whatever he fucking skimmed.

He leans closer, kisses me—and I kiss back stronger, my lips swelling beneath the pressure. Until he has to pull away so I won’t fuck up my shoulder.

His chest rises and falls heavily, his thumb stroking my cheekbone, and he finally tells me, “Dum spiro, spero.”

I circled that phrase in my paperback. I know he took Latin in college, but I ask anyway, “You know what that means—”

“‘While I breathe,’” he translates, “‘I hope.’”

It overwhelms me.

Hope.

Him.

Love.

Pain.

I inch closer, but a knock sounds at the door. We both rub our wet faces, and as our bloodshot eyes meet again, I know and he knows that what we share is greater and stronger than whatever the world has to throw at us.

We won’t end here.

9

MAXIMOFF HALE

Anesthesia fogs me, especially after my surgery. I can’t recall how I ended up back at my townhouse. Maybe I apparated or a teleportation power kicked in. I do know that I slept most of the day.

At 7:56 p.m., I’m more coherent, but I’m sweating.

I kick down my orange comforter. A red sling braces my right arm to my chest, mostly secured by a cross-body strap and a wide band velcroed around my upper abdomen.

Noise booms from downstairs. Music mixed with tons of chatter—it echoes off the brick walls of my small attic bedroom, but I’m alone up here.

I sit up more—the room spins three-sixty-degrees. So damn lightheaded. Breathing through my nose, I move to the edge of the bed. My bare feet hit the floorboards, but I don’t stand.

Dear World, you should know this is the worst pain I’ve ever felt. Worst Regards, a pained human.

Every muscle screams at me, sore from the crash. But sharp stabbing radiates in my shoulder.

I’ve broken my ribs before, and I had a minor ankle fracture when I was thirteen, sliced my palm pretty badly on a rock, and I’ve torn my hamstring.

None of those required a metal plate and screws. None of those immobilized me this badly. I want my shirt off, the white fabric drenched in sweat.

So I reach back and try to unwrap the sling’s band. I’m struggling when the door opens.

My mouth falls. “Your hair.”

Farrow subconsciously combs his inked fingers through bleach-white strands which contrast his brown eyebrows. He looks beyond fucking sexy. His Third Eye Blind V-neck molds his muscles and reveals his neck, throat and chest tattoos. Black pants fit snug on his legs and package.

And I’m sitting on the edge of my bed. Sweating my ass off.

But I also notice the concern that grips his eyes while he studies me.

“I just dyed it,” Farrow explains, kicking the door shut and drowning out the downstairs commotion. “You’re breaking a rule.”

“What rule?” I ask as he nears me.

His brows ratchet up. “You’re not supposed to take your sling off for four to six weeks.” Off my confusion, he realizes, “You didn’t hear the post-op instructions.”

I want to combat him, but I’m in too much pain. “A lot is hazy. I gotta get out of this shirt,” I tell my boyfriend, slowly rising to my feet. I’m unsteady—Farrow reaches me, his sturdy hand on my waist.

We’re practically eye level.

“Let me,” he says, his tone like rough sex.

I watch him reach behind my back and detach the band. Gently, he slips the strap off my neck. My pulse thumps, and I’m a billion times hotter.

I’m not even protesting and saying I can do it myself. Right now, I need him.

Farrow helps me take my arms out of my shirt and fills in the hazy pieces of my memory. “You can’t pull, lift, or stretch with your right arm for about eight weeks. Stretch rehab starts after that. In three months, you can add strength exercises.”

Three months.

That seems like forever without full mobility and swimming. Butterfly stroke requires total range of motion on both shoulders.

“Christ,” I mutter, and I try to pull my shirt over my head, my gray drawstring pants low on my hips. “What else did I miss?”

He frees me of my soaked shirt. “You were groggy after you woke up from surgery, and your dad asked you how you were.” Farrow tosses my shirt aside and starts carefully reattaching the band around my bruised abs.

I’m hanging on his every word, and he notices. He’s irritatingly drawing this out.

“What the fuck did I say?” I have to ask.

Farrow is close to laughter. “You told your dad you’re naming your son Batman.”

My eyes pop out of my head. “No I didn’t.” He has to be fucking with me.

“Yeah, you did,” Farrow smiles wide. “Your dad asked you, what son? And you said the one in the Batmobile.”

I blink slowly. “I killed my dad. He’s dead, right? Death by Batman talk.” I’m dying right now because the one time Farrow and I have spoken about our future like marriage and kids—it was last night. When I was lying beside the wreckage. And we haven’t resurfaced what Farrow told me in the rain.

Except my anesthesia-brain decided to talk about a fictional kid named Batman. Of all damn things.

I feel like I’m bathing in a broiler.

“Your dad is alive,” Farrow says easily, “but he said your son sounds like a little prick.”

I nod stiffly. “That’s definitely something my dad would say about a kid named Batman.”

“I think you mean your kid,” he corrects.

“No,” I shake my head. “I wouldn’t name my kid Batman. Can’t be mine.” I attempt to retie my drawstring pants with one hand. They slip way too low on my waist. I struggle to get the job done.

My pulse is beating out of my chest in his silence.

Farrow takes the strings from me, stepping closer. “That’s good because that couldn’t have been mine either.”

I lick my lips, a smile trying to pull my mouth. I nod stronger, and we’re looking at each other more deeply. His fingers are perilously close to my dick, and he knots the strings.

Any other time, I’d ache for those fingers to go lower. But right now, I cringe at the sensation in my collarbone. Like a knife is staking me on repeat.

“What’s your pain level?” Farrow asks.

“Zero,” I joke. “I feel absolutely amazing. Like I body-swapped with an angel.” I force a smile.

“You look like shit,” he tells me and puts a hand to my damp forehead. His other hand falls to my ass.

I make a face. “Pretty sure I look gorgeous, bangable, like hot shit.”

He rolls his eyes. “Okay, smartass. You sure you don’t want Vicodin or Oxy? Because ibuprofen isn’t cutting it.”

“I’m alright,” I say more seriously. “I can handle it.” With a family history of addiction, I don’t want to mess with any addictive painkillers. It’s a personal choice that my dad and my uncle have made before. Though

, I’m weighing my sanity because this isn’t a cakewalk.

Farrow combs his hand through his hair again. “Truthfully, I hate seeing you in this much pain. You understand that’s why you’re sweating?”

I nod a couple times. “But it’s also hot in the attic.”

Farrow reluctantly pulls away from me. Just to reach the thermostat attached to the brick wall. Near my dresser.