Semua Bab The Alpha In My Sheets: Bab 71 - Bab 80

Dylan’s POVThe door swings open, and I’m met with the oppressive heat of the room, even worse than before. The air is bloated with the sharp, pungent scent of synthetic pheromones. My stomach lurches, but I force myself to move forward.Tristan had sweat glistening on his olive-toned skin, his black hair plastered to his forehead. His shirt is half undone, the fabric sticking to his chest. His head hangs low, and he’s breathing heavily, almost gasping, his pupils blown wide with an intense need. The paramedics are standing off to the side, one of them on the phone, looking overwhelmed.One of them turns to me, wiping sweat from his brow. “We’ve tried everything. The suppressants aren’t working, and increasing the dose could put him at risk.”My heart clenches, and I hurry to Tristan, kneeling beside him. His hands are tied behind the chair, wrists red and raw from struggling. As I reach out to him, his head lifts slowly, his gaze zeroing in on me like I’m the only thing in the world.

Dylan’s POV Tristan’s breathing has calmed some, but his skin still feels too hot, his pulse too rapid. I know I need to do something to help him cool down, but his hands are gripping my shirt with a kind of desperate strength, like he’s terrified I’ll slip away if he lets go. “Tristan,” I whisper softly, brushing his hair out of his face. “I need to get something to help you cool down, okay?” His grip tightens, his fingers curling into the fabric. “Don’t… go,” he mumbles, voice hoarse and laced with lingering need. I swallow the knot in my throat, forcing a smile. “I’m not leaving. Just let me get a cloth to help, alright?” His eyes are barely open, but I can feel his body tense as if the idea of me moving even a few feet away is unbearable. I don’t blame him; the synthetic heat drugs are making his instincts go haywire. “I’m not leaving,” I repeat gently, squeezing his hand. After a moment, he lets me pull away just enough to reach the bathroom. I grab a small towel, soaking it

Dylan’s POV I’m holding onto my sanity by a thread. Tristan’s body is pressed up against mine, his head still resting on my chest, and I’m trying to keep my breathing steady, my hands moving gently through his hair. His fever hasn’t broken, but his shaking has eased a little, and for a moment, I think he might finally be calming down. Then his hands shift, moving up from my waist to cup my face, his fingers tracing my jawline with a featherlight touch. My heart stutters, and I swallow hard, fighting to keep my reaction under control. He’s looking at me through half-lidded eyes, pupils blown wide and glistening with something raw and unfiltered. His thumb brushes over my cheek, and I can feel the tremor in his touch, the way he’s barely holding himself together. “Prettyboy…” he whispers, voice shaky and soft. “Make it stop.” I know what he’s asking for—relief, comfort, something to pull him out of this feverish haze. I can feel his desperation like a physical force, wrapping around

Dylan’s POVI’m trying to keep my mind straight—keep my focus on soothing Tristan and not on how his hands won’t stop wandering. His fingers are tracing the line of my neck, light and teasing, and I can’t ignore how his touch makes my skin tingle. I know he’s still battling the remnants of his heat, but his movements are slower now, more purposeful, as if he’s caught in some trance of his own making.“Hey,” I murmur, trying to ground him. “Tell me more about your mom’s piano songs. What was your favorite?”Tristan’s fingers slide from my neck to my collarbone, his eyes still half-lidded, that feverish glow lingering in his gaze. “She used to play this old waltz… I can’t remember the name. I just know it was sad. Bittersweet. She’d play it when she thought no one was listening.”He moves closer, his lips brushing against my jaw before I can react, and I stiffen, swallowing hard. “Tristan, focus,” I say, voice low. “What did you want to be when you were a kid?”He pauses, his hands slid

Dylan’s POV My body buzzing from the way his hands had moved over me, the way his lips had claimed mine like he was staking his territory. Tristan’s hands are still trembling, but now they’re softer, almost hesitant as he pushes me back gently onto the bed. He straddles me, his fingers tracing my collarbone and drifting down to my chest, his eyes still dark with desire but tempered now with something softer—something almost tender. He swallows hard, his throat bobbing, and I can feel his pulse racing under my hands as I rest them on his hips. There’s something unspoken hanging in the air, and I know he’s fighting to keep himself composed. “Are you okay?” I ask quietly, brushing his hair back from his face. He nods, but his hands are still shaking, his breath uneven. I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he’s trying to ground himself. I reach up, cupping his face, and he leans into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “Talk to me,” I murmur, my thumb strokin