Alphas Like Us (Like Us 3)

Farrow watches.

“It was just a little kid’s fear,” I tell him, “but I still remember going to restaurants where my aunts and uncles would have alcohol. There’d be a beer beside my dad’s water, and I’d worry all night that he’d accidentally drink out of the wrong glass.”

“How’d you get over it?” Farrow asks, and he lets me slip his silver rings off his fingers and collect them in my callused palm.

“My mom,” I tell him. “I told her why I was scared, and she said that my dad’s liver was made of vibranium.” Off his confusion, I add, “The same indestructible steel that Captain America’s shield is made of. She said that it’d take more than a single drink to destroy him.”

He breaks into a smile, lightness in his eyes. “That sounds like your mom.”

I nod, and I recognize that I just veered off the study track again. But while the wheels are off, I think about the hospital. His residency. One more time.

One last time.

I need to say this so I can just leave it alone. “I get that you can’t tell me anything about your patients,” I say to him. “HIPPA and all of that, but I’m still here if there’s anything you want to share. Stuff about your coworkers or what fucking cafeteria food you had for lunch. But if you want me to drop it, I’ll drop it.”

“Drop it,” he says, too quickly. Really goddamn quickly. And he’s serious. He’s not joking or fucking with me.

It hurts. God, I wish it wouldn’t. “Alright,” I nod, more tense, and I try to unthaw my frozen body and examine another flashcard. I close my hand around the rings I slipped off his fingers.

Farrow rubs his eyes, and then he swings his legs off my lap. Standing up, he takes his half-bitten apple and nears the mini-fridge underneath a Thor: God of Thunder poster.

This was the inverse of what I wanted to happen. Taking a breath, I focus on the flashcard. “What do you give a kid with chronic daily headaches?” I ask.

He squats to the mini-fridge. “A tuna sandwich.”

“What?” My brows furrow.

He glances back at me. “You asked what cafeteria food I had for lunch.” Our eyes dive to the bottoms of each other’s gaze. “A tuna sandwich. The day before that was chicken salad, and both were extremely fucking mediocre. The food is nothing special.” He takes a beat. “I’m sorry that I’ve been distant about work—I know that I am. Fuck, I hate that I am, but I just can’t talk about it yet.”

Yet.

So that wasn’t all of it. I nod a few times.

His chest rises in a tight inhale. “I’m trying to protect you, wolf scout. Trust me.”

I stop myself from asking, from what?

Because I remember that I’ve protected him from remorse, guilt, regret every time I withhold what he’s missed. I don’t rehash all the bullshit each heckler yells at the townhouse. Or how security has had trouble securing my bedroom window, even after the drone. I won’t tell him how the other day I asked Bruno, my new bodyguard, “Is something wrong?” and he stayed quiet.

With Declan, my bodyguard before Farrow, I was used to that silent treatment and lack of info. With Farrow, he gave me everything.

Everything.

He showed me what better looked and felt like, and now there’s this strange emptiness that Farrow once filled.

I don’t tell him any of that.

Because I’m not going to hurt him, and I realize now that there must be something similar happening on his end.

He’s protecting me.

I nod, more assured. “I get it.”

Farrow skims my features, easing more, and he reaches into the fridge and grabs a Fizz Life.

With his silver rings still in my palm, I absentmindedly slip a few onto my fingers.

“Tricyclics,” Farrow says, sitting right up against my side, on my orange beanbag. Shoulder to shoulder. He hands me the soda, and he bites into his apple. His movements distract my brain, and I shake my head. Fuck.

“What?” I ask.

He smiles. “Tricyclics, wolf scout.”

I must look massively confused. Because I am.

“The quiz question.” Farrow flicks my notecard.

Right. I glance at the answer. “Good guess,” I say dryly, the air lightening. We both breathe easier, and I’m happy about that.

“Not a guess.” He chews his apple, and I hone in on his upturning lips. He notices and asks, “Sure you don’t want me to fuck you all night?”

Very unsure. “Positive, and you should tease the wall, the carpet, that lampshade over there.” I point to the lamp across the loft. “Because it’d be more likely to give into you.”

Farrow lets out a long whistle. “He wants me to flirt with inanimate objects.”

I try really hard not to laugh. Christ, focus. I shuffle through a few more cards, and I notice the silver rings on my fingers. His rings.

I’ve worn them before today. Just like this, but it dawns on me in this second that his rings fit my fingers perfectly. We’re pretty much the same size. And I’ve never noticed that before.

I wouldn’t need to steal a ring in order to match his size. I can just buy one that fits me—and I can’t believe I’m thinking about this. But it’s never meant something to me the way it does right now.

This powerful moment surges through my core. Because I feel ready to do more than just dream or think about forever with him. I’m going to make it happen.

26

MAXIMOFF HALE

“Take some breaths. We’re going to figure this out,” my mom tells me.

I’m breathing, but I’m too aware and laser-focused on the difficulty level of what I’m about to do. And what I’m about to do is normal.

So normal. It shouldn’t be this epically complicated.

Janie offers a cup of hot tea to me as a calm down tactic. I shake my head stiffly, and she places the cup back on the oak desk.

The three of us are huddled in my parent’s home office, facing a humongous desktop computer. My gangly mom sits close to the screen, the large leather chair making her appear even smaller. Jane and I pushed up two velvet, lilac armchairs to the desk.

I control the computer’s mouse. Clicking through websites and scrolling along pages of wedding bands. Nothing jumps out at me. I thought it’d be obvious when I started looking, but…nothing.

“Let’s start with engraving,” my mom suggests. “Yes or no?”

My pulse speeds, and I narrow my gaze at the screen. Engraving? I think he’d like that, but it’d depend on what words are engraved. “I don’t know…I don’t fucking know.”

My mom squeezes me in a side-hug. “You don’t need to worry. Farrow will love whatever you pick out because you picked it. I know he will.”

It’s a calming thought, mostly because it’s coming from my mom. I look over at her. She’s still beaming. Glowing. Her cheeks are red she’s been smiling and tearing up so damn much.

Like right now, she wipes the corners of her eyes.

Jane sniffs, misty-eyed too, her retro sunglasses blocking her tears, and my heart feels fucking swollen it’s so full. Thirty minutes ago, I told them both that I planned to ask Farrow to marry me.

Neither one of them thought I’d ever get married. Before I started a relationship with Farrow, I said I wouldn’t even date someone. I’ve let myself be happy. Really happy, and their happiness for me just overwhelms me tenfold.

My mom asked why I didn’t wait to tell her and my dad together. He wasn’t in the room. It’s pretty simple. My dad will spill the news to Uncle Connor and Uncle Ryke in a heartbeat, and at that point, it’ll start reaching my cousins, siblings and then security, Farrow’s friends.

My mom is a certified secret-keeper. One of the damn best, and I trust her and Janie not to tell a soul. Because if I want this proposal to go as planned, Farrow can’t know.

The media can’t know.

You can’t know.

So the only people allowed in on this right now are my mom and Janie.

Done and done. I’ll let my dad, siblings, and the rest of my family in on it the day of the proposal. It’s a well thought-out plan, but I’m not going to lie, there are a few holes.

Like this fucking ring.

“Oooh this one is nice.” My mom points at the screen. It’s silver.

“No silver,” I declare. “He has a million silver rings. It won’t be special enough.”

“It’ll be special because it’s from you,” Jane reminds me with a sappy smile.