Back in the kitchen, Dex has poured up two large cups of chocolate. One is larger than the other.
I rarely use these. Amandine probably gave them to me years ago. I let her buy everything I might need for the kitchen after all.
The larger cup feels ironic.
Apex, written using the alpha glyph as the initial. Not subtle.
Yeah, sure, sis. More like bottom-scraps. But what can I do? My older sister probably wants her little brother to be an apex alpha. Instead, she got the biggest dumbass. Someone who has no alpha behaviours, only dumb instincts.
She gifted more of those. I have one that says, “You look at omegas weird? Watch out because I fight.”
I said that. I was probably fourteen or fifteen.
“World’s nicest alpha” is another ironic one. Me? Nice? Almost as bad as being an apex. No one would follow me. I have no leadership skills.
As I go to grab the cup, I place my hand on Dex’s hip again. Where it belongs.
I blow on the beverage habitually before I taste it. Not bad. It seems to have a bit of spice in it. I lower the cup and look down at my gorgeous mate.
“Not sweet,” I comment.
I’m not a fan of sweets. Most alphas aren’t. There are biological reasons for this. But expressing why sucrose and fructose, among other sugars, are repellants to alphas is difficult. It’s something nurses got to know, though. Some things have higher glucose content, and we can’t, according to proper protocol, offer alphas at the hospital high glucose foods and beverages, unless there are medical reasons to ignore what we medically call as glucose intolerance.
“I put some ginger and cayenne in it. Do you like it?”
“I do,” I rumble. I bow my head and croon, “Good boy.”
Oh god, that felt so good to do. I needed that.
“Do you always praise like that?” Dex asks before sipping from his own, very neutral, cup.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“You said the same thing to Seth — good job and well done.”
“I…” I don’t know how to describe the feeling inside me. Like I’ve let him down for praising my closest friend. “Doesn’t Miguel praise you?”
“He does. It’s a ruffle of my hair or he gives me a thumbs up. When Inwas younger it was a high-five.”
Those are praises? Well, a thumbs up is akin to approval, so I suppose it could count as praise. But to me, it has merely looked like affection when Miguel ruffles his hair. There’s no approval radiating from him. It could even be a bit of pity mixed into his body language, if one is to break it down.
Maybe I’m misreading it. What do I know about alpha displays? Especially some social apex alpha. Body language is individual and I don’t know Miguel well enough in the first place.
“It’s the same thing — I’m just the vocal type,” I reply. “Vocal praise is also more useful at the hospital. Nurses use vocal cues with patients all the time.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“If you don’t like it, I won’t do it. Can I praise you some other way?”
“No, I’m good. I was just curious.”
I lower my head and nuzzle his hair again. I want to sneak in a kiss.
Can I?
I absolutely shouldn’t.
“You’re such a good boy,” I croon. I move closer to his ear as I place the cup back on the counter. “Alpha approves,” I add in a murmur.
I pull back. I’ve never said that before.
Feeling it’s inadequate, like he deserves even more praise. I tell him, “You made the tastiest chocolate, Dexter. I’m proud of you. You made me very happy.”
Dex falls quiet and at first I think I’ve offended him, but then I notice the tip of his ear is pink.
I squeeze his hip and pull him closer.
My body and brain are screaming “mate” at me. The word is on the tip of my tongue. I swallow it.
I’m not that drunk. It’s not something you call just anyone. It’s not something you tell someone you feel something about when drunk.
But because I am so focussed on not saying that, my mouth betrays me in other ways.
I find that I’m nipping at the pink tip of the ear.
Nope. No! No no no no no!
I let go and step back. “I’m so sorry. It’s just…” I scramble to think of something. “…my weird headspace today. And alcohol. Yeah, that’s it. I didn’t mean to do that. I’m sorry.”
I nearly say, “I don’t want to eat you.”
Dex slowly puts the cup down and turns to me slowly. His face is red.
God, I’ve humiliated him.
“Should I call a cab?” I ask softly, head hanging, back curved.
I hate myself.
He averts his eyes. “Yeah, no, nah. It’s okay.”
“Okay,” I repeat.
“Okay,” he echoes.
I nearly say it again too.
“You sure?” I ask.
I want to touch him.
“Mate,” every cell inside me roars at this moment.
I want to touch my mate. No, still not that. Just reach to cup his cheek, feel the heat of his flushed face. Move it down slowly until his chin is cupped. My mate needs to look at me. I would turn his head and tilt it back. Gently, slowly, as not to spook him.
I can’t quite control the urge. I don’t want to.
I don’t want to upset him either.
My hand hovers near his face. I don’t touch him. I could. It’s so close. I feel the heat already.
He glances at me, but doesn’t move away.
I can’t.
My fingers brush against his cheek before I take his chin and make him look at me properly. Only when I look into his beautiful green eyes do I finally cup his cheek. Both of them even.
My breath is uneven as I close the distance. My heart is thumping in my ears. When he closes his eyes, I feel panic.
Does he hate me now?
That’s the question that flashes through my mind.
But amidst my own heavily restrained yet strong scent that screams of attraction — a scent I’ve been trying to ignore for a while now, that is hidden from most of the world the majority of the time, a feeling I don’t want to project and force onto him — are the quiet strings of his beta scent.
They tell me he wants this.
I lean in close.
I need this.
My mate wants this. I need to give him everything he wants.
When I’m a hairsbreadth away, I shift and place a peck on the tip or his nose.
“Sorry, I’m drunk. I’m not quite thinking things through right now.”
Dex laughs softly before he opens his eyes. “All right. It’s fine.”
His laugh is so cute.
I let go of him and take my ironic apex alpha cup and have sip of the fluid.
Had I been completely sober, I would have gone through with it. It’s not that I don’t want it enough. It’s not that I’m afraid of taking some mutual. Fear doesn’t stop me.
Not that sort of fear, anyway.
If I couldn’t tell he wants to, then I would back off. If I can, who cares about anything else? I’ll make it work. I’ll take him. I’ll steal him.
He’s mine to begin with. My mate.
No, he’s not mine. I don’t own him.
But I don’t want my first kiss with him to be while I’m tipsy and not great at making decisions. It should be special. It’s something we’ll remember for ages. Just like our first mating.
Just like when I claim him.
I need to be sober for this thing. He’s not some one-night-stand or any of my rut companions.
Mate.
That’s what he’s to me. This is not something I shouldn’t consider closely.
I don’t want to consider what it means.
Even if I’m no more than a onetime thing, I will treat my mate right. I will give him, and myself, the memories we deserve.
“Sorry,” I say again. “Don’t let me do this when I don’t have the full capacity to make my own decisions, please.”
“I won’t. I don’t want to hurt you either.”
A lesser alpha would have said a beta can’t hurt them. But I understand him. I’m not a lesser alpha.
He reaches up and brushes my cheekbone. My eyes close by themselves.
My mate is touching me.
It hurts.
It hurts so much.
To be this taken, yet I’m as single as the others.
Geoffrey doesn’t count. He doesn’t usually join us.
Honestly, I feel like I’m even more single than they are. I’m more “free” than they are. They can have anyone.
I’m bound to a mate now. I wouldn’t be able to date anyone else.
I’m okay with that.
A long time ago, before I presented, Dad told me to come to his study after dinner. This didn’t necessarily mean we would actually go to his study. It was just a metaphor for a private talk.
My brothers and sister had more than once had been called to the study. I never had. Or at least couldn’t remember I had. I was too young for “private talks”. These were adult talks in my mind. My siblings were all presented. Two beta brothers, one omega sister. Even if everyone else thought I’d be an alpha, with two beta brothers already, it seemed like Dad’s alpha genes weren’t the strongest, and it was reasonable that I would be a beta too.
Biologically, with the information I had at that age, it was a reasonable conjunction a strong, dominant gene meant dad would have given mum alphas or omegas. An alpha with strong genes is unlikely to have betas. For generations, the primary heir has had only alpha or occasional omega for the at least first two offspring. The omegas get married off to make alliances, the alphas are responsible for the business, and any betas support the heir.
A weak one meant Dad would be unlikely to have an alpha child. Something like 2-3%.
That was what I had learnt.
What I didn’t understand then was that genetics aren’t that simple. My genes come from the combination of two people — Dad and Mum. Even a dominant alpha gene means little if there’s a recessive gene for something else. If Mum has genetics for betas and omegas, then, of course, if Dad’s recessive gene is what’s passed on, my brothers would be betas. There would still be at least a one-in-four chance I became alpha, depending on Mum’s genes.
So, naturally, one of four children ended up alpha. It’s unlikely Dad had recessive alpha genes. I know that now.
Though, that is, admittedly, assuming the past several generations have had absolutely mad luck.
So, as an unpresented child, I was expecting a talk about how my body would change, but probably not much. Dad had never directly suggested I would be an alpha. Not in words or even actions.
Once a nurse, I realised he treated me with the expectations of an alpha, but also like the youngest, spoiled child who wouldn’t need to take over the company.
I was doing so many sports. That was the alpha treatment.
He never lectured me about getting into fights. He lectured me on responsibility when strong. That was the alpha treatment.
Dad brought me to the countryside that night.
He didn’t even bring a driver. It was really just him and I.
I was excited, because I really looked up to Dad.
We slept at the country house. The whole family had been there a few times.
Early in the morning, Dad put me in some less than pristine clothes, put his arm around my shoulders and said, “Leopold, today you will master horseback riding.”
I had never felt more let down.
Horses weren’t for alphas.
Or so I thought. But it wasn’t just riding. I had to muck the stables, brush the horse, bond with it a little. I didn’t master it that day. I didn’t master it the next either. For the next four months, every weekend and every school break, Dad brought me to the stables.
He didn’t talk to me about anything special, just the usual. Asked about school, friends, competitions.
…My most recent fights and disagreements.
After four months, I finally lost it.
“What the fuck do I need to take care of a dumb horse for?! You told me I’ll learn to ride! I barely even sat on it!”
“Language, Leopold.”
Dad said nothing else. Just told me to mind my language. Typical.
But that weekend, he took me on a ride for hours. We had a break to eat lunch.
And that’s when he said, “As an alpha, Leopold, you need patience. Not dominance over others, not respect from them, and absolutely not their fear. You need to have patience. Patience and courage.
Courage to protect those who are weaker than you, always. The weak are always your greatest priority.
Patience because once you find your mate — for you specifically — it will be the worst and best thing that has happened to you.
And with patience comes restraint. It’s time that you learn to restrain your temper. It’s something you will practise every day for the rest of your life. Once you present, you will struggle with it. Your instincts are strong, so don’t let them win when it matters most that you care for who you want to be, not what your primal self forces upon you.”
That was the day dad no longer treated me like an unpresented beta.
Dad was right.
Meeting Dex really is the best and worst experience. It’s painful. It’s wonderful. I feel whole. I’m broken.
No one ever talks about the unrequited mate bond of alphas. No one talks about how it’s painful.
It’s always framed as this wonderful thing. Something gradual, reciprocal. Or it’s no biggie. It’ll be rough for a while, but you can move on to find a second mate. No one has just one person they can build a mate bond with.
It’s not a big deal.
It’s not.
No one talks about how it sneaks up on you at the gym. How it feels like an addiction. How you get withdrawal symptoms from it. The separation anxiety. The nights you feel like you don’t want to continue with anything anymore.
No one talks about it because it’s incredibly rare. Only seen in a very specific group of alphas. Most don’t ever get it. It’s too unreal. Too fictional. Bonds don’t get that strong on their own.
Dad did understand. Not from experience, but he could see that it was where I was heading. I only understood that when I realised what was happening, far too late to turn around and run.
Patience and courage. I need those every day now. Especially patience.
Only I still don’t fit that group of alphas either. I’m not like them. I’m abnormal.
“I’m sorry,” I say again and step away with the resistance of moving a mountain. The silence is awkward. “Would you like to watch a film or something?”
“Mm. Sure.”
“What do you wanna watch? I have every streaming service.”
I don’t need to be humble. Seth already revealed I’m a spoiled brat. Might as well openly admit I spend money for no reason on stuff.
No need to explain it’s to curl up on the couch and try not to think about him.
How many times haven’t I fantasised about watching stuff with him curled up against me? About how I’d watch him and not the film. How I’d kiss him when appropriate. Scent him. Bite him.
And more, obviously. It always goes further if I think about biting. It always go further as I tell him, in my fantasies, “My mate is a good boy.”
I admit: I may have a praise kink. And a claim kink too.
I feel like I developed both because of Dex.
Author’s Note
This boy really needs help. But at least he has self control.
