Epilogue Alex
One year later
I wake up to the sound of pages turning.
I shift, not opening my eyes yet, but nudging my leg against Marcus’ and sighing when his big, warm hand squeezes my thigh.
I take my time with a few indulgent, cat-like stretches, groaning as they ease the strain in my tired muscles, and reveling in the warmth of the sheets.
I crack one eye open, the morning light filtering through the linen curtains—ones we brought from my old apartment when I moved in with him, along with most of my furniture—into our bedroom and cutting across the massive, brooding wall of muscle next to me.
Marcus is unclothed from the waist up, our thin sheet draped across his lap, looking down at me with an expression on his face that’s far too soft for this early in the morning.
There’s only so much my heart can handle.
“How long have you been awake?” I mumble, dragging my hand over his knee under the covers.
Marcus shrugs. I convinced him to try letting his hair grow out a little, and I notice it’s just getting long enough to start curling at the nape of his neck. “An hour or so. Thought I’d let you sleep in on your day off.”
I smile and roll so I can bury my face against his shoulder. “Whatcha reading?”
Marcus sighs and reluctantly turns the cover of the book towards me. Ballet Theory For Beginners. “I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of Colette again. Or your mom.”
I smile sleepily. “Coco was just busting your balls last night, you know that, right? It means she likes you.”
“Could have fooled me,” he grunts.
“And my mom loves you. I spoke to her on the phone before the performance last night, and she literally only asked questions about you. She wants to come watch a fight.”
Marcus laughs, closing his book and throwing it on the nightstand. “She’s welcome any time. Max is still bugging me to convince you to get in the ring for a real match, you know.”
“I’ve already told him I’m too beautiful for that,” I say wryly, twisting into a pose that shows off the curve of my waist and enjoying the way Marcus’ cheeks darken. Still so easy to fluster, every time. And I still can’t get enough of it. “I’m nothing without this face.”
“It’s the only reason I stay,” Marcus deadpans.
I give him a flat stare.
“And the ass,” he adds. “How could I forget the ass.”
“Fuck me and then make me French toast?” I ask, yawning, although really it’s more of a demand, and Marcus knows it.
Luckily for me, my alpha is always happy to oblige.
“Stop grumbling, you’ve been promising me I can take you furniture shopping since I moved in.”
Marcus lets out a slow, suffering groan, but doesn’t remove his hand from where it’s resting on my hip.
We’re standing in the middle of a cavernous, dusty antique store on the edge of the city, surrounded by towering stacks of oak wardrobes, velvet armchairs, and the faintly sweet smell of aged wood polish.
“I’m not grumbling, but the dust is making me sneeze,” he says, sniffling for added effect. I swear he’s gotten more dramatic since we got together, like I’m rubbing off on him.
“You said you can never find pieces with character, like all my furniture,” I say, spreading my arms out in front of me. “Well, this is where we find them.”
I step out of his hold to wander down the aisles, running my hand over the rugged edge of a sideboard that looks like it’s been in storage since the ‘60s, and stopping to pick up a stunning Tiffany lamp, huffing when I turn it over and find a cracked pane of stained glass.
Marcus follows half a step behind, glancing around, completely out of his depth.
I’ve got my head halfway inside a gigantic ceiling light when I notice that he’s not behind me anymore.
I glance back over my shoulder. Marcus is standing a few paces away where a buckling bookshelf holds a random assortment of second-hand books and old textbooks, half of their covers hanging off.
He’s got a large hardback in his hands, his eyes fixed intensely on words he’s tracing with one finger.
“Find something more exciting than an obnoxiously large Bauhaus lightshade?” I ask, sauntering back over to him and resting my chin on his shoulder.
Marcus jolts slightly, snapping the book shut like he’s been caught looking at a naughty magazine. “Just… looking,” he rasps.
I look at the cover of the book in his hands. The title is stamped in gold lettering over a dark green cover, and it looks noticeably newer than most of the other books on the shelf. Beyond Biology: Emerging Research On Alpha To Alpha Bonds.
I lift my chin off his shoulder sharply, my scent spiking.
“Did you read much?” I ask quietly. I suddenly feel like I can’t take a full breath
“A little. It’s basically a collection of research papers and anecdotal reports from the last fifty-odd years. I don’t think there’s been much official research into…” He trails off, flipping back to the page he was just scanning, handing the book to me. “Just read this.”
“…long-held biological theories indicated that permanent partner bonds and mutual scent bonding were exclusive to traditional omega/alpha pairings. However, some early-stage modern endocrinological research and anecdotal evidence from oft-subjugated subcultures suggest that in instances of intense emotional connection and life-partnership, dual-alpha bonds may not only be possible, but hold the same permanency and biological synchronicity as alpha/omega mating bonds.”
We’re both quiet as I close the book. The idea of mating—of a true, biological bond that tethers two souls together—is something we’ve never discussed.
Alphas don’t mate alphas: it’s branded into the fabric of society.
Everything is based around alpha/omega bonds, so why would we have discussed it?
It’s taken as a given that it’s not possible.
“Do you think it’s real?” I say finally, my throat dry.
“It’s from a legit scientific journal,” Marcus responds, still staring at the cover of the closed book. “And I wouldn’t expect the media to report on something like this. They’d have you believe couples like us don’t even exist. But if there’s any truth to it…”
When I look back at him, he’s looking at me hopefully, and my stomach leaps.
“Yeah, that would be…” I don’t have the words to finish the thought.
Marcus brings one large, calloused hand up to cup my jaw.
“I don’t need a piece of paper or a traditional bond to know that I’m never letting you go, Alex,” he murmurs, his eyes searching mine.
“But if there’s a way to make it permanent, to show the whole damn world that your alpha belongs to mine… ”
“If it’s possible, we’ll find out how,” I say, kissing his thumb when it brushes over my bottom lip. My voice is thick with emotion that I can see reflected back at me in Marcus’ handsome, usually stoic face.
Marcus lets out a rumble of approval, tucking the book under his arm and linking his other hand with mine. “We’re buying the book.”
“And that beautiful sideboard over there?” I smile slowly, squeezing Marcus’ hand.
He rolls his eyes, but the warmth in his gaze turns my insides to mush. “And the damn sideboard, you furniture whore. You’re lucky I love you.”
And yeah, I think, I am.
—
Thanks so much for reading!