Semua Bab The Alpha In My Sheets: Bab 91 - Bab 100

Dylan’s POVI should be relieved. The fever should be breaking by now. I should feel triumphant, knowing that I was able to bring Tristan some comfort, some relief from the relentless heat that’s been tormenting him. But that’s not what’s happening.Instead, Tristan’s body is still tense against mine, his breathing uneven, his skin burning against my hands. He’s trying to ground himself, gripping my shoulders so tightly I’m sure there’ll be bruises later. He mutters under his breath, words too tangled and frustrated to make sense.I stroke his back, pressing soft kisses to his forehead, trying to calm him. “Hey,” I whisper, keeping my voice low and soothing. “It’s okay. Just breathe with me.”But he doesn’t. His hands trail down to my hips, fingers digging in as if he’s trying to fuse us together. I can feel his desperation in the way his mouth moves against mine, rough and insistent.“Tristan, slow down,” I murmur, cupping his face, but he shakes his head, pushing forward, his mouth

Tristan’s POV My head is pounding, and my chest feels tight, like something vital has been ripped out of me. I stare at the crumpled note in my hand, the words blurring together until they’re nothing but smudges of ink. Dylan’s gone. Just… gone. I sink back onto the bed, my mind replaying fragments of the last few days—the fever, the pain, the way Dylan stayed by my side even when I knew I was a mess. His touch, his voice, the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention. I keep seeing his face, that worried, soft expression when he brushed my hair back. He was always gentle, even when I didn’t deserve it. Even when I was too far gone to realize how much I was hurting him. My hands clench around the sheets, and I bite back the nausea creeping up my throat. I can’t stop thinking about it—how I tried to bite him, to mark him. Like some feral animal, desperate and out of control. The way he froze, the way his hands shook when he pulled back. I didn’t want to scare him

Tristan’s POV I’m on the hotel balcony, leaning back in the flimsy metal chair, a half-empty bottle of whiskey dangling from my fingers. I’ve been out every night this week—late meetings, more drinking than I should be doing, and then coming back here to this too-quiet room.My chest feels hollow, like something vital got scooped out and left to rot. I take another swig, barely tasting it anymore. The alcohol doesn’t do much to dull the ache, but at least it keeps my thoughts from spiraling too far.I stare at the skyline, eyes unfocused, and remember the last time Dylan laughed with me—really laughed. It was one of those mornings where we didn’t have anywhere to be, and he made coffee while complaining about how I wad never certified with the way he drafted my contracts. I’d deliberately complained just to see that look of exasperation on his face, and sometimes I think he’d realized I’d just complained for complaining sake and he’d just give me this dirty look, I on the other hand

Tristan’s POVThe café is buzzing with the usual mid-morning crowd, people chatting over coffee, laptops open, and the faint hum of jazz from the overhead speakers. But despite the comforting sounds, I feel like I’m walking into a war zone. I spot him right away—Richard Wolfe, my father. He’s sitting at a corner table, perfectly poised, hands folded on the tabletop, and his eyes lock onto mine the second I enter.I straighten my shoulders, forcing myself to keep my pace steady, even though every instinct is telling me to turn around and walk the hell out. I know that look—stern, unimpressed, and already pissed off before I’ve even said a word. Typical.I sit down without a word, and the silence stretches out for a moment too long. Finally, he clears his throat, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Tristan.”“Dad,” I reply, matching his tone.He doesn’t bother with small talk, cutting straight to the point. “Do you realize the damage you’ve done?” he snaps, his voice low but sharp. “You

Dylan’s POVIt’s been a week. Seven days of silence. Seven days of waiting for something—anything—from Tristan.I’m sprawled out on my bed, my phone clutched in my hand, the screen glowing faintly in the dull light. My eyes are red and tired, but I can’t stop staring at it, willing it to light up with his name. Every time I hear the faint buzz of a notification, my heart leaps, only to crash when I see it’s just a spam email or some pointless group chat.I’ve read through our old messages so many times I could recite them word for word. I scroll back to the ones from before everything went to hell—the ones where he’d tease me about my terrible taste in movies or complain about my weirdly specific coffee orders. I find the ones where he’d send a random selfie, pretending to look annoyed but with that faint, crooked smile that I knew meant he was happy.My thumb hovers over the text box, the cursor blinking at me like it’s mocking my indecision. Just send something. A simple “Hey.” Or m