All Chapters of The Alpha In My Sheets: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

Dylan’s POVOliver sat propped up beside my desk, easy confidence and smooth arrogance emanating from him, as if he fucking owned the world. As if he fucking owned me."Big night tonight," he said, stirring coffee in his cup. His unreadable, sharp eyes were pinned on me. Watching. Waiting. "You should go."I didn't even look up from my laptop. "Work event?""Technically."I breathed in through my nose, flipping through messages I wasn't actually reading. "Then I'm figuring I don't have a choice.""It's always your choice," Oliver told me, pushing off the desk and moving around my chair. His fingers brushed along the back of it, too close, too comfortable. As if he was checking."But I'd… rather if you came.""It's just about work now.".I wasn't stupid—I knew Oliver's play. The taunts. The smirks. The way he looked at me like I was a puzzle to be solved, piece by piece.And some part of me should have said no.Should have ended this before it could even go any further.But the other p

Dylan’s PovThere were so many other thing I could do, literally anything other than stand here like an idiot between the two men currently locked in a silent fucking standoff.But I didn’t.Because I was too busy feeling the heat radiating off Tristan, too aware of the way Oliver was watching him like a cat with a trapped mouse.I wasn’t stupid.I knew what this was.Oliver was poking. Testing. Pushing.And Tristan?Tristan was barely keeping himself from snapping.His entire body was coiled tight, tension rippling under his sharp suit like he was two seconds away from throwing a punch.And the part that made me angrier?I felt it.The way his presence sank into me. The way my body reacted before my brain could.Like even now, even after everything, he was still mine.And I fucking hated it.Oliver smirked.Because of course he did.“Relax,” he murmured, swirling the last of his wine before downing it in one smooth motion. “You’re making a scene.”Tristan’s jaw twitched.I knew that

I was done.I deserved a damn prize for breaking this record.That's what I kept telling myself, again and again. I was done with him. Done with it all.But every time I saw Tristan—every time I heard his voice, felt the solidity of his eyes pinning me in place—something within me cracked. Like a strand that had started to come undone I couldn't help but pull, even though I knew it would reduce me to pieces.I'd walked away. Decided on it. Made my choice.Or so I thought.But none of that mattered, because here I was, standing in front of him once more, and I couldn't tell if I was still furious, still in pain, or just. too bloody exhausted to give a damn about anything anymore.Tristan simply stood there, chest heaving and falling as though he'd run there. Fists clenched at his waist, his entire body taut, but his eyes—his goddamn eyes—worse. They were dark and burning, destroyed in a way that made my stomach twist.He folded his arms, the line of his jaw so tense I could virtually

Fuck sleep.Seriously, fuck it. I close my eyes, and there he is. I open them, and I swear I can still smell him. My brain won’t shut the fuck up about him, and it’s becoming a goddamn problem.Not just in the usual ways—like the suffocating ache in my chest, or the endless loop of memories clawing at my brain. No, now it’s worse. Now, it’s in my work. My fucking work.And I don’t fuck up at work. Ever.Except lately? I do.And Bobby—my new, overly enthusiastic, way-too-perky-for-this-shit assistant—is paying the price.“Sir, I just need your signature—”“Then fucking ask for it instead of standing there like a lost puppy.”Bobby’s eyes widen a little before he scurries away, and yeah, okay, maybe that was unnecessary, but I don’t have the energy to care. I rub my temples, exhaling sharply. I can feel the stress thrumming in my veins, tight and unrelenting.Or maybe it’s not stress.Maybe it’s fucking Dylan.Again.Always.I shove back from my desk, chair scraping against the floor, t

Tristan's POVThe moment you're about to do something that changes everything, there's this moment—this acutefast breathless moment—where your head does the calculation on all the ways you can still change your mind. Where your body screams at you to stop, to rethink, to think twice.I'd done it before.I was seven the first time I learned what it was like to go off script.It was summer. My dad had brought me to one of those extravagant garden parties at one of his business acquaintances, a man whose handshake was too tight and daughter, Eleanor, whose curls were so beautifully brushed they didn't move, not even on a sweltering summer afternoon.I had been instructed very specifically by my father in advance. You'll be polite to Eleanor. You'll eat with her. You'll eat the same as she does. And when she talks about her new piano, you'll say you have one too.I didn't have a piano, however. I had a guitar.I didn't love the piano, didn't love Eleanor, but I loved that dumb guitar. And