Chapter 8
Milo
Iwake up in a bed that smells like sex and something woodsy I'm already addicted to. For a split second, my brain stalls out completely. Then the memories hit me like a freight train, and my entire body flushes.
Callum's bed. Callum's apartment. Callum's teeth marks on my neck.
The bite throbs when I shift, sending a sharp pulse through my body that toes the line between pain and absolute bliss.
I'm wearing his shirt and nothing else. My legs are tangled in the sheets, and every muscle in my body aches in the best, most specific ways possible.
Somewhere in the apartment, a cabinet clicks shut. A mug clinks against a counter. He's humming some tuneless, off-key melody, making coffee like this is a normal Wednesday morning and not the morning after he knotted me, bit me, and confessed he's been my anonymous KnotMe match for a week.
I reach across the mattress. His side is still indented, the sheets warm.
I press my face into his pillow and inhale.
Clean skin, that darker, heavier alpha scent I still don't have a name for.
My cock stirs against my thigh. Apparently, my body has decided Callum's scent is a direct line to my dick now.
That's fine. That's a completely normal physiological response to have about the man currently making me coffee while I lie in his bed with his come dried on my thighs.
I grab my phone off the nightstand. Seventeen notifications light up the screen. I know before I even unlock it that the group chat is a disaster.
Jude: MILO REYES Jude: IT HAS BEEN 12 HOURS Jude: DID YOU MEET THE ANONYMOUS ALPHA OR DID YOU GET MURDERED Jude: IF YOU GOT MURDERED BLINK TWICE Benji: he can't blink twice if he's dead, that's the whole point of being murdered Jude: THEN WHO WILL I ROAST ABOUT THEIR KNOTME PROFILE?
?? Benji: if he was good in bed i don't want to hear about it.
if he was bad i DEFINITELY don't want to hear about it Shay: ?? Jude: MILO.
ANSWER YOUR PHONE. I NEED TO KNOW IF ANONYMOUS ALPHA IS A KEEPER OR IF I NEED TO KEY HIS CAR
The gap between what they think happened and what actually went down makes my chest tight.
I type out three different responses and delete them all.
It was good feels insultingly inadequate.
I found my fated mate and he's Ava's brother and he bit me last night and also he's been catfishing me on KnotMe feels like a lot for a group chat at eight in the morning.
I settle on: it was really good. like REALLY good. i'll tell you guys later ok? I add a thumbs-up emoji that feels pathetically insufficient, but it buys me time.
Soren texted separately. Not in the group chat, just to me.
Soren: hope you're okay. text me when you can. no details needed, just want to know you're safe ??
My throat gets tight. Soren always does this. He asks if I'm safe instead of asking for the gossip, and right now that kindness hits me harder than usual. I can't tell any of them the truth yet.
i'm really good, Sor, I text back. like really really good. i'll explain soon i promise
I put the phone face-down. The kitchen sounds continue—something sizzling in a pan, Callum's terrible humming.
I push myself out of bed. My body protests in half a dozen places, every ache a visceral reminder of his mouth, his hands, the stretch of his knot, the sharp-sweet slice of his teeth.
I pad barefoot across the cold tile to the bathroom.
I freeze in front of the mirror. Jesus. I look thoroughly wrecked. My curls are a disaster, my lips are swollen, and the bite mark on my neck sits red and raised on my scent gland, right above the collar of his shirt. I look like I belong to someone.
I tilt my head, checking the bite from different angles. It's permanent. It's going to scar. But instead of panicking, I brush my fingertips over it and feel the bond pulse under my skin. A quiet, preening satisfaction hums in my chest. This is mine. This man chose me.
I tug the soft gray cotton of Callum's shirt down. It hits me mid-thigh, the sleeves hanging past my fingertips. My own clothes are in a heap on the bedroom floor. I should put them on. I have a library shift in two hours. I should be a functioning adult.
Instead, I stare at my reflection. I'm wearing my alpha's shirt with nothing underneath, and I'm going to walk into his kitchen exactly like this.
Not because biology is steamrolling me. Because I want to see his composure crack.
The old Milo would have scrambled to make himself presentable, to be easy and low-maintenance.
The new Milo—the one with the throbbing bite mark and the sore thighs—wants to be a menace.
My hands are shaking. My stomach is in knots. I do it anyway.
Callum is at the stove with his back to me.
He's shirtless, gray briefs riding low on his hips, muscles shifting as he pushes something around a pan with a spatula.
He's ridiculously broad. The freckles I spent half the night tracing are scattered across his shoulders, and I want to bite every single one of them. He looks domestic and devastating.
"Coffee's almost—" he starts, turning around.
The sentence dies in his throat.
His whole system crashes in real time. He takes in the oversized shirt, my bare legs, and whatever his nose is picking up, because his nostrils flare and his eyes go pitch-black. His grip on the spatula tightens so hard the plastic creaks. He ignores the sizzling pan.
He sets the spatula down and crosses the kitchen with that steady, terrifyingly deliberate focus he gets, stopping just close enough that I can feel his body heat. His large hands grip the counter on either side of my hips, caging me in. He leans down until we're eye level.
"I was going to get coffee," I say. It comes out breathless, immediately ruining my casual vibe.
He dips his head, burying his nose against the fresh bite on my neck. He doesn't kiss it. He just breathes against it. An electric shiver rips through me, and slick immediately pools between my thighs.
"You put this on for me," he murmurs against my skin, a smile in his voice. "You walked in here wearing my shirt and absolutely nothing else, and you want me to believe you came for coffee."
"Maybe I just like the shirt."
"Milo." He pulls back just enough to catch my eye. The corners of his eyes crinkle, amused and starving all at once. "The eggs are burning."
"You should probably do something about that."
His mouth goes right back to my neck. I grip the edge of the counter because my knees are rapidly turning to liquid. My other hand lands flat on his chest, trailing down the coarse hair of his stomach until I hit the waistband of his briefs.
He's rock hard. The sheer size of him through the thin fabric makes my breath hitch. I felt all of this inside me last night, but the daylight reality of wrapping my fingers around his cock through his sweatpants hits entirely different.
Callum groans, a low, rumbling sound, but he keeps his hands flat on the counter. The restraint radiating off him is maddening.
"What do you want, Milo?" he asks, his voice gravel.
"Whatever you—"
He shakes his head, his nose brushing my jaw. "No."
My face burns. The instinct to defer—whatever you want, I'm easy, I don't mind—is practically muscle memory. But he's not letting me hide behind it. I grip his waistband.
"Take these off," I force out, my voice tight. "Please. I want you inside me. Right now."
The second the words leave my mouth, his restraint snaps.
His calloused hands slide under the shirt, pressing flat against my bare hips.
I gasp at the contact and arch into him, tilting my hips so he can feel exactly how wet I am through his sweatpants.
He groans, spinning me around so my chest hits the counter.
"That's all you had to say," he rumbles against my ear.
His hand slides down between my thighs, finding the slick already dripping there. He curses under his breath, deeply impressed, and pushes two fingers inside me. I'm still loose from last night, but the stretch makes me whimper. I drop my forehead against the cool countertop while he works me open.
"You sore?" he asks, even as he grinds his hard cock against my ass.
I am. The deep, specific ache of his knot stretching me wide is definitely still there. "I don't care," I bite out. "I want you."
He lets out a ragged sound, shoving his briefs down.
Then he's pushing into me, thick and hot, knocking the breath straight out of my lungs.
The counter edge digs into my hips. He grips my waist, thrusting hard and fast. This isn't the slow, reverent claiming from last night.
This is frantic, morning-urgent, breakfast-burning sex.
"You walked in here wearing my shirt," he grunts against my ear, his breath hot, "and expected me to make you breakfast." His hips snap forward. I cry out, my fingers white-knuckling the counter edge.
"Harder," I beg.
He obeys instantly. The wet smack of our bodies echoes in the kitchen. The eggs are absolutely ruined, and I couldn't care less. I'm lost in the friction, the heavy weight of him, the way my bite mark pulses with every single thrust.
He reaches around, wrapping his large hand around my cock. My brain whites out. His calloused palm strokes me in time with his thrusts, slick with my own pre-come. At the base of his cock, his knot is starting to swell, thickening as my hole clenches greedily around it.
And then he pulls out.
The loss is so sudden my hips jerk backward on instinct, chasing him. A pathetic, desperate whine rips out of my throat. I know why he did it—a knot means we're stuck for thirty minutes, and I'd miss my shift—but right now, I want to kill him.
His come hits my lower back in hot, heavy spurts. His fist tightens on my cock, pumping me ruthlessly until I shatter right there against the counter, my legs shaking so badly I'd collapse if he wasn't holding me up. A broken sob tears out of me.
For a long minute, the only sound in the kitchen is our ragged breathing. He rests his forehead between my shoulder blades, his hand still gripping my hip.
"I hate you," I wheeze into the counter.
He lets out a surprised laugh that vibrates against my spine. "No, you don't."
"You pulled out. Who does that? You're a monster."
"You have a library shift in ninety minutes."
"I would rather die on this counter than shelve a single book without your knot inside me."
He laughs harder, burying his face in my shoulder. My legs are trembling, I'm covered in his come, the kitchen smells like burnt eggs, and I'm laughing too. It's perfect. Better than perfect.
He reaches over and clicks the stove off. I stay slumped over the counter because my legs are officially on strike.
"Shower," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the nape of my neck. "I'll make more eggs."
"You ruined the first eggs."
"You ruined the first eggs. I was doing great until you walked in here wearing that."
"You told me to take the shirt."
"I didn't tell you to wear it with nothing underneath and walk into my kitchen looking like—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head. The look on his face is pure, exasperated devotion.
The shower is quiet. He washes my hair, his large hands working the shampoo through my curls with careful, thorough efficiency.
I stand under the hot spray and force myself to just let him take care of me.
It's harder than it sounds. My instinct is to help, to be useful, but I keep my hands at my sides.
He runs a thumb over my bite mark under the water. The bond hums under my skin, and I shiver.
"We should tell Ava this week," he says.
"I know."
He waits. He's good at that—giving me room to breathe.
"I know we need to," I add quietly. "I just...can I have today? Can this just be ours before it becomes everyone else's?"
He pulls me against his chest, pressing his mouth to my wet hair. He doesn't say a word, which is exactly what I need.
I get dressed in yesterday's wrinkled clothes. Callum wraps a dark blue knit scarf around my neck, carefully adjusting the fabric until it covers the bite completely. His eyes track the hidden mark with a dark, possessive flare that makes my stomach flip.
I pick up his gray shirt from the bedroom floor and start to fold it. You don't just take people's clothes.
"Take it," Callum says from the doorway.
I hesitate. Don't impose. Don't be a burden. The thought rings loud in my head, but it only lasts two seconds before I shove the shirt into my bag. It smells like him, and I want it in my bed tonight.
Getting out the door takes longer than it should. The bond pulls at my chest like a physical tether. He kisses me—slow, unhurried, a promise that he'll see me soon.
"Text me when you get to the library," he orders softly.
"You're not my mom."
"Text me anyway."
I roll my eyes, but I'm smiling as the apartment door clicks shut behind me.
I step into the empty elevator and catch my reflection in the metallic doors.
Just a guy in yesterday's jeans and a borrowed scarf.
From the outside, I look exactly the same.
But the Milo who walked into this building last night had never been chosen on purpose.
The Milo walking out just had his alpha pull out at the last second so he wouldn't be late for a shift.
I don't know what you call that, but it might be the most romantic fucking thing that's ever happened to me.
The doors slide open to the bright campus sunlight. The world is loud and completely ordinary, totally unaware that my entire life just changed. I adjust the scarf, hike my bag up my shoulder, and step out into it.