The Alpha Who Broke Me

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I wake with a start, sitting up and running a hand through my tangled hair with a shaky sigh. My body feels sticky with sweat as I climb out of my bed, and that familiar ache lingers between my legs—the unmistakable aftermath of the dream that still has my heart racing.

I catch my reflection in the vanity mirror across my bedroom—flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, and a vulnerability I hate seeing in myself.

I had hoped sleep would be my sanctuary from thoughts of Vincent. Instead, it betrayed me completely. My dreams were filled with him—vivid, haunting, impossible to shake. His strong hands on my waist, his breath against my neck, his voice in my ear. Even now, my body hums with phantom sensations like he was really here, like his fingers actually traced paths across my skin, like he branded himself into my very soul.

With trembling legs, I step into the shower, leaning against the cool tile wall as the water cascades over me. I didn't think this could still happen—not after all that distance, not after building a life without him. But after last night? After that moment when time stood still and his lips hovered just inches from mine? Apparently, it can. Apparently, I'm still that pathetic omega who fell for his lies.

Frustration builds in my chest as I push off the wall and grab my loofah, squeezing far too much of my lavender body wash onto it. I scrub my skin furiously, turning it pink under my ministrations, as if I can physically wash away whatever spell Vincent has cast over me.

"When my body starts suggesting other ways to relieve this aching tension, I immediately shut down that line of thinking and twist the shower knob with more force than necessary, stepping out into the steam-filled bathroom. Get it together, Kaia. He made his choice back then, and it wasn't you.

A sharp ping from my nightstand cuts through my self-pity. The sound sends a jolt of guilt through me as reality comes rushing back. I never replied to Lewis's text.

I wrap a fluffy towel around myself and pad across the cool floor to my phone. Lewis also almost kissed me last night. He took me on a date that should still be playing on repeat in my mind, a night worth remembering and cherishing. But I forgot about it completely. Because of Vincent. Because of someone who used me as entertainment for a cruel dare.

I grab my phone, water from my hands smudging the screen as I reread Lewis's sweet message. He should be the one consuming my thoughts, my dreams. Not Vincent. Lewis, with his kind eyes and genuine smile. Lewis, who actually treats me with respect. So why isn't it that way? Why can't I feel for him what I feel for someone who destroyed me?

I toss my phone onto my unmade bed and move to my closet, pulling out my work clothes—navy slacks and a crisp white blouse that looks professional. It doesn't matter. I won't let it matter. I refuse to let Vincent have that power over me—not after what he did, not after he proved exactly what he thought I was worth.

I step out of my room, fully dressed, and head downstairs for breakfast with Mom. She’s at the stove, her dark hair pulled into a loose ponytail, wearing her favorite faded robe. She's scrambling eggs with practiced ease, humming softly to a tune I recognize from an old movie we watched together last week.

The scent of buttered toast fills the air, mingling with the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee, but even that comforting warmth doesn't shake off the unease sitting heavy in my chest.

"Someone slept restlessly," I say, sliding into one of the mismatched kitchen chairs, noting the dark circles under her eyes that mirror my own.

Mom turns around, a plate of scrambled eggs in her hands, her face showing concern despite her own exhaustion. "You're one to talk. You look like you've been tossing and turning all night." She sets the plate in front of me, her movements careful and deliberate—the treatments are taking their toll. "What's wrong, sweetheart?"

I sigh, my shoulders sagging under the weight of my thoughts. "Nothing gets past you."

She smirks, settling into the chair across from me with her own cup of coffee. "Being your mother makes that impossible, especially when you're broadcasting your emotions like a radio tower."

I exhale deeply, wrapping my fingers around the warm coffee mug she slides toward me, then start telling her everything about last night—the date with Lewis, Vincent's unexpected appearance, the almost-kiss that's still burning in my memory.

The moment I finish, Mom's eyes widen, flashing with an emotion I recognize all too well—protective fury. "He did what?" she exclaims, her coffee mug hitting the table with a sharp clink.

I nod, sinking deeper into my chair.

"No, absolutely not. He has no right to break into our home and intimidate you like some territorial animal." She leans forward, her dark eyes blazing with the same fierce protectiveness that got her through raising me alone after Dad died. "That boy proved what kind of person he was seven years ago, and he sure as hell has no right to waltz back into your life acting like he owns you."

"I know," I rake a frustrated hand through my hair, feeling the strands catch on my fingers.

Mom's jaw sets in that stubborn way that used to terrify the pack bullies when I was younger. "You need to set boundaries with Vincent, honey. And if he keeps this up..." Her eyes narrow dangerously. "Well, let's just say I still remember how to make his life very uncomfortable."

I tense, knowing exactly what she means. Mom might be sick, but she's never lost her edge when it comes to protecting me. "It's not that deep, Mom. I'll handle it." But in my mind, I add silently—once I have the courage to face him after last night without falling apart.

Mom eyes me skeptically, her gaze piercing through my defenses like it always has. The kitchen falls silent except for the soft hum of the old refrigerator. Finally, she sighs but doesn't push.

"Just make sure he knows you won't tolerate it. You deserve better than being yanked around by someone who doesn’t deserve you."

I nod, steeling myself for the inevitable confrontation. Setting boundaries with Vincent has never been simple, but I refuse to let him think he can intimidate me.

"I should get going," I tell her, getting up from the chair and heading to the door. I grab my purse and light jacket from the hook by the door. "I don't want to be late on a Monday."

As I step outside into the crisp morning air, the weight of my conversation with Mom settles on my shoulders. Today is going to be a long day.

As I walk to my car, my phone pings in my pocket, vibrating against my thigh. I pull it out and see a message from Lewis, his profile picture—a candid shot of him laughing at something off-camera—making my heart skip a beat.

"I hope everything's okay. I didn't hear back from you last night. Let me know when you can."

Warmth spreads through my chest, melting some of the ice that formed overnight. He's worried. He actually noticed my silence and cared enough to check in. His concern feels genuine, not possessive or demanding—just the right amount of interest from someone who wants to know I'm safe.

Vincent, on the other hand? Not a single message. No, How did you sleep? No, Sorry for breaking into your house and almost kissing you. Nothing. Just silence.

I push the thought away with such force that I nearly stumble over a c***k in the driveway. I shouldn't be torturing myself over Vincent. I shouldn't be comparing every man to him. I need to focus on what's in front of me—on Lewis, who's present and attentive and actually communicates like an adult.

I lean against my Honda, and quickly type out a reply, assuring Lewis I'm fine and looking forward to our next date. As soon as I hit send, my lips curl into a smile that feels natural for the first time since last night.

This is good. This is normal. This is what dating should feel like—simple, light, full of possibility.

I unlock my car and slide into the driver's seat, checking my reflection in the rearview mirror before starting the engine. I have a feeling today is going to be great.