Page 5 of The Alpha’s Unclaimed Mate

“I’m trying to help you.”

That stops me. Four quiet words with no heat in them, and I hear how I sound. A woman screaming at the one person who stopped on an empty road, kneeling in a gutter and snapping at the man she’s hated for ten years because he had the gall to be kind about it.

Heat climbs up my neck. I hate it.

“Sorry.” I shove the word out, and it scrapes my throat raw. “I’m sorry. That was—I’m not having a great night.”

“I noticed.” There’s no smugness in it. He crouches across from me, already gathering cans into the crook of one arm. “Truce?”

I don’t want his truce. I don’t want him within a hundred feet of this curb. But I’m out of bags, out of dry, out of pride, so I press my lips together and nod.

He scoops the wreckage up without effort, the dented cans, the rescued cereal, the one surviving carton, then stands before I do. I push myself up and reach for it all.

“I’ll take them.”

“You’ll drop them again.” He says it gently, which is worse. “Which floor?”

My stomach drops faster than those eggs did. “Second. But you really don’t have to—the building door’s right there, I can manage from—”

“Second floor.” He’s already moving toward the entrance.

I scramble ahead of him, fumbling my key into the lock, and the whole climb up the stairwell, my mind is sprinting somewhere else entirely. Please be asleep. Please, baby, be asleep. It’s past nine. She gets sleepy by eight on a good night. The lights were off from the street, I think. I couldn’t tell through the rain.

He follows me down the hall, easy and unbothered, water dripping off him onto the carpet. I stop at our door with my pulse stuttering against my ribs.

“You can just set them down out here,” I try. “I’ll bring them in. Really, this is more than enough, you’ve already—”

“Open the door, Jessa.” Not a command, just a tired man holding a week of someone’s groceries in the dark.

I open it.

The apartment is dim, one lamp burning low in the corner, the hallway to the bedrooms black. No small voice, no patter of feet. My shoulders come down an inch. He steps past me, crosses to the little kitchen table, then sets everything down with a care I didn’t expect, as if he understands it’s the only food I’ve got.

“There.” He straightens, glancing once around the bare little room, taking it in without comment. “All in one piece. Mostly.”

“Thank you.” I’m already turning to herd him back out. “I mean it, you’ve done way more than—”

My foot catches the edge of the rug. It happens fast, my ankle rolling, the floor tilting, a yelp I don’t mean to make. Then his hand finds my waist, his other arm braces across my back, and I’m not falling anymore. I’m against him. Solid, warm, soaked through, his heartbeat thudding under the palm I’ve pressed to his chest.

Neither of us moves.

He’s looking down at me, and whatever amusement he’s worn all night is gone. His eyes drop to my mouth and snap back up, his jaw tight, his breath coming a little uneven. I feel it pull at me too, low and unwelcome, every traitorous cell in my body leaning toward a man I’ve spent ten years hating in theory.

His head tilts. He’s so close now that I catch rain and something warmer beneath it.

“I’m married.” I get it out fast, both hands flattening to push back. “I told you.”

He doesn’t let go right away. His gaze drifts to my bare left hand, the one fisted against his shirt.

“I don’t see a ring,” he murmurs.

“I lost it.”

“Did you.”

“I lost it.” I shove off him properly this time, finding my own feet, putting some distance between us. My face is on fire. “And just so we’re clear, I didn’t take the ride because I wanted to get you into bed. I don’t do celebrities, or athletes, or whatever it is you are now.”

That earns me a slow blink, then, infuriatingly, the corner of his mouth lifts.