And do you know what I hate about his touch, about how he’s twirling my hair, massaging my neck, keeping me so close as if to claim me in front of these other alpha men? It’s that it feels so natural, so real, like in this small moment, nothing is wrong between us. But we all know playing pretend is not forever, and when this is over, I’ll be thrust back into reality where we just don’t seem to match up like we used to. Our goals are different, and our desires and needs are different. I might matter to him, but I don’t matter the most. And that’s the cold, hard truth. Which breaks my heart. We were once so incredible together.

While the men finish up their conversation, I pack up the leftover pizza, clear the plates, and then head back to my bedroom, where I open my computer and focus on the design I’ve been working on for one of my classes to get my mind off the way Ryot spoke about me with kind words and affirmations about my talents. That was a total mindfuck. I can’t recall a time when he spoke so highly about that stuff. And I don’t want you thinking that he’s an asshole who never appreciated me, because he wasn’t, we just . . . we never talked about those kinds of things around other people. Hearing him mention it to JP and Huxley was . . . weird, yet fulfilling, as if I’ve been waiting for that acknowledgment.

Not to mention, I needed to take a deep breath after sitting through a meal while he caressed my inner thigh and twirled my hair. It took me back to simpler times when we’d be resting on the couch together, watching mindless TV, and he’d have his hands on me in some way. It was his way of marking me, ensuring I was always with him.

After what seems like hours, my eyes feel blurry, so I decide to get ready for bed. Just as I shut my computer, there’s a knock on my door. Knowing exactly who it is, probably ready to chastise me for my comment about moving, I mentally prepare myself for a fight. I answer the door to find Ryot on the other side, his hand gripping the edge of the doorframe. No longer in his jeans and a T-shirt, he’s changed into a pair of shorts, and that’s it. My eyes roam his chiseled torso, noticing how much more defined he’s become. He’s always been muscular, but I’m not sure if it’s because I haven’t been cooking for him, so he’s just been eating protein bars. Either way, his stomach reads like a road map of strength, his abs like mini-islands all along his stomach.

“Can I help you?” I ask, finally pulling my gaze.

When his head lifts and his eyes focus on mine, he says, “I want my shorts.”

“What?” I ask, confused.

His eyes narrow, his fingers curl around the wood, and through clenched teeth, he says, “My fucking shorts, I want them.” And then before I know what’s happening, he’s lifting me up and depositing me on my bed.