All Chapters of The Alpha In My Sheets: Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

Dylan’s POVMy stomach is in knots, my pulse pounding loud enough to drown out my own thoughts. I reread the message from Bobby, but the words don’t change. Tristan’s new assistant. Kidnapping warrant. Release Tristan.My hands start to shake, and I feel like the room is spinning. Panic bubbles up in my throat, and I have to remind myself to breathe. I’m sitting up now, the sheets pooling around my waist, and Tristan shifts beside me, frowning as he tries to read over my shoulder.“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice still thick with sleep. “What’s going on?”I swallow hard, my mouth dry. “It’s… a message. From your assistant. Bobby.”Tristan’s brow furrows, and he reaches for my phone, but I don’t let go, my fingers clenched tight around it. “Dylan,” he says softly, his hand covering mine. “Let me see.”I finally loosen my grip, and he takes the phone, reading the message with a calmness that makes my panic feel even more irrational. I’m waiting for him to react—to yell or curse or show any

Tristan’s POV The sun is warm on my skin, filtering through the branches overhead as I lean back against the wooden bench. A soft breeze carries the scent of coffee from the café just behind us, and I close my eyes, letting the quiet hum of the city drown out the noise in my head. Dylan sits beside me, one arm draped over the back of the bench, his fingers tracing lazy circles on my shoulder. I lean into his touch, feeling strangely at ease. It’s not often we get out like this—away from the hotel, away from the suffocating weight of expectations. Just… here. He hands me a paper cup, the rich aroma of hot chocolate wafting up. I take it gratefully, wrapping my hands around the warmth. Dylan’s sipping his coffee, his eyes drifting over the people passing by—joggers, a couple walking their dog, a kid dragging a bright red kite behind him. “It’s nice out here,” I mumble, mostly to myself. Dylan hums in agreement. “Thought some fresh air would do us good. Feels like we’ve been coo

Dylan’s POV I push the door open, stepping inside for the first time in days. The place smells a bit stale, and I can see dust settling on the coffee table. I let out a long breath, trying to shake off the weird tension still clinging to me from leaving Tristan behind. It’s stupid. It’s not like I left him for good, but every time I’m away from him, I feel this uneasy twist in my gut. I force myself to focus, heading straight to the windows to crack them open and let in some fresh air. The plants on the windowsill look a bit wilted, and guilt washes over me. “Sorry, guys,” I mumble, grabbing the watering can and giving each of them a good soak. My fingers brush over the leaves, making sure they aren’t too dry, and I try to remember the last time I gave them any attention. Before everything with Tristan spiraled out of control. Once the plants are taken care of, I sift through the pile of mail that accumulated at the door. Mostly junk—coupons, bills, and a letter from the landlo

Dylan’s POVTristan’s sprawled on the couch, looking more exhausted than I’ve ever seen him. The belt around his waist is still blinking with those damn red lights, the paramedics hovering nearby to keep an eye on the readings. I can tell he’s trying to put on a brave face, but his eyelids keep fluttering like he’s fighting sleep.I reach over to the table and grab the container of chicken soup the medics brought in. I pop the lid, and the steam wafts up, smelling surprisingly decent. Tristan glances at it with a mix of suspicion and hunger, his nose twitching.“Think you can manage a few bites?” I ask softly.He shrugs, but I catch the way his stomach growls, and I suppress a smirk. “Come on,” I coax. “You need something in you.”I scoop up a spoonful, blowing on it to cool it down. The problem is, with the belt wrapped around his waist and his arms loosely restrained to prevent sudden movements, feeding him is a logistical nightmare.I lift the spoon to his lips, but he shifts just

Dylan’s POVTristan…. Tristan is like a cat these days.His hands slide under my shirt, palms hot against my skin, and I can’t help but tense up. His touch isn’t desperate or fumbling—it’s purposeful, steady, and undeniably intentional. I try to keep my breathing under control, but it’s hard when he’s looking at me like that—sharp, focused, like he’s decided what he wants and won’t take no for an answer.“Tristan,” I murmur, half warning, half pleading. I know he’s still recovering, and the last thing I want is to push him too far.He doesn’t let up. His fingers brush over my ribs, trailing down to my waist, and his lips find the curve of my jaw, pressing firm, deliberate kisses. “I know what I’m doing,” he mutters, his voice low and rough. “I’m not out of my mind, Dylan. I just need you.”I hesitate, and he notices, his gaze cutting up to mine, challenging me to push him away. “You’re still feverish,” I insist, but it’s weak even to my own ears.He scoffs, giving me a wry, crooked sm