The Begging Alpha

Day After Tomorrow

(Freya)

The pencil hovered just above the page, unmoving. Freya frowned faintly at the sketch in front of her, not because it was wrong, but because it had stalled. The dress should have been finished by now. The silhouette was already there—clean lines, a fitted bodice that flowed into a skirt meant to move rather than cling—but something about the neckline refused to resolve itself. Her hand hesitated, unwilling to commit to a curve that didn’t feel honest.

She exhaled through her nose and leaned back slightly, studying the page from a different angle. Jasmine’s studio was quiet in the way only creative spaces ever were. Tall windows let in clean northern light that spread evenly across the room, illuminating bolts of fabric stacked along one wall and dress forms arranged like silent sentinels. The faint hum of the building’s climate control blended with the distant sounds of the city outside, creating a cocoon that felt separate from everything Freya had left behind. This was where she belonged.

She shifted forward again, pencil touching down as she refined the waistline, letting instinct guide her hand instead of thought. When she worked like this, time usually disappeared. Worries dulled. Memories softened at the edges. Today, they refused to.

Jasmine lounged against the opposite table, tablet in hand, scrolling through notes and schedules with casual efficiency. “The Full Moon celebration is going to be chaos,” she said, glancing up. “The Queen taking your red gown guarantees it.” Freya smiled faintly without looking up. “They always are.”

“Yes, but this time they’ll know why.” Jasmine’s gaze flicked toward the sketches spread across Freya’s workspace. “You’re not a rumor anymore. You’re back.” Freya’s pencil slowed. “I never really left.” Jasmine snorted. “You vanished. The fashion world held a collective funeral.” Freya’s lips curved despite herself. “Dramatic.” “Accurate.” Jasmine straightened and walked closer, peering over her shoulder. “This neckline—what are you thinking?” “I’m not,” Freya admitted. “That’s the problem.”

Jasmine hummed thoughtfully but didn’t push. She moved back to her tablet instead, scrolling again. “Speaking of dramatic returns,” she said casually, “Prince Karl will be at the Full Moon event.” Freya’s hand stilled. The name hit her harder than she expected, sending an unwelcome jolt through her chest. Her heart stumbled, then resumed at an uneven pace. Jasmine glanced up, catching the reaction immediately. “Unmated,” she added with a knowing smirk. “And only slightly younger than you. Tall. Polite. Infuriatingly earnest. Handsome.”

Heat bloomed across Freya’s cheeks before she could stop it. She cleared her throat and forced her pencil to move again. “That’s irrelevant.” “Oh?” Jasmine leaned against the table again, arms crossed. “Because from where I’m standing, that’s very relevant.”

Freya shook her head. “I’m not—this isn’t about—”

Her phone rang. The sound cut through the studio like a blade. Freya sighed in irritation and reached for it without looking, already preparing to silence the call. When she saw the name on the screen, her breath caught.

Bradley.

Her fingers tightened around the phone. For a moment, she considered letting it ring out. She didn’t owe him an answer. Not anymore. Instead, she tapped the speaker icon and set the phone down on the table between fabric swatches and charcoal pencils, deliberately distancing herself from it. Jasmine’s eyebrows lifted in open curiosity. “What do you want?” Freya asked, her voice cool.

There was a pause on the other end of the line, just long enough for her to picture him standing somewhere stiff and uncertain, weighing every word the way he always had. “I wanted… to talk,” Bradley said. Freya said nothing. “Over dinner,” he continued, and then—hesitant, stripped of command—“please.”

The word landed harder than it should have.

Freya’s heart skipped outright, then stuttered, heat flaring suddenly across her skin. Shock flickered across her face before she could hide it, eyes widening despite her effort to remain composed. For a split second, she knew he could hear it in the silence—the hesitation, the impact. She forced herself to breathe. When she spoke again, her voice didn’t betray her. “I’ll check my calendar,” she said evenly. “I’m extremely busy, Alpha Bradley.” The title tasted sharp on her tongue and she hung up.

Freya stared at the phone long after the screen went dark, her reflection faintly visible in the glass. Jasmine scoffed loudly, breaking the moment. “Do not accept.”

Freya didn’t answer immediately. She picked up her pencil again, though her hand trembled faintly as she traced a meaningless line along the margin of the page. “He doesn’t deserve dinner,” Jasmine continued, pushing off the table and pacing. “He deserves therapy and maybe a shock collar.” Freya huffed a quiet laugh despite herself. “You’re not wrong.”

“Frey, I’m serious.” Jasmine stopped in front of her. “This is exactly how men like him operate. Grand gestures when it’s too late. He probably drank himself half to death just to prove a point.” Freya’s head snapped up, glare sharp. “Don’t.” Jasmine paused, startled by the sudden edge in her voice. “That’s not fair,” Freya said, more quietly now but no less firm. “You didn’t see him.” Jasmine crossed her arms defensively. “I don’t need to. I’ve seen this pattern before.” Freya’s chest tightened as the memory rose unbidden—Bradley at the bedroom door, hair disheveled, eyes red and hollow, his suit stained and rumpled in a way that spoke of neglect rather than performance. There had been no calculation in that moment. No control. Just devastation. “That wasn’t a show,” Freya said softly. “And you don’t get to decide that.” Jasmine studied her for a long moment, then sighed. “You’re really considering this.”

Freya looked back down at her sketch, at the unfinished dress waiting patiently for her decision. She adjusted the neckline at last, the curve resolving itself with quiet certainty. “Yes,” she said. “I am.”

Jasmine shook her head. “You’re too kind for your own good.” “No,” Freya replied, pencil moving with renewed confidence. “I’m just not finished yet.” She didn’t know what dinner would bring. She didn’t know whether it would hurt more than it healed. But she knew this—walking away without hearing him out would haunt her just as much as staying had.

And that frightened her more than any Prince, any Queen, or any Full Moon ever could.

(Dylan)

Dylan knew something was wrong the moment Bradley stopped pretending to listen. They were midway through a scheduling meeting—quarterly projections, partnership follow-ups, the kind of administrative noise that usually slid right off Bradley’s attention like water off glass. But this time, Bradley’s focus wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t even present. He stood near the window of the conference room, hands loosely clasped behind his back, staring out over the city as if the skyline held answers none of them had asked the right questions to earn.

Then Bradley’s phone buzzed. Once.

He didn’t react immediately, which was the first red flag. Bradley always reacted immediately—if not outwardly, then internally. Dylan had learned to read the micro-tensions years ago: the way his shoulders set, the fractional tilt of his head. This time, Bradley slowly pulled the phone from his pocket and read the screen. And smiled. It wasn’t big. It wasn’t triumphant. It was small. Almost fragile.

Dylan straightened. Bradley exhaled and turned back toward the table. “I need to step out,” he said calmly. “Cancel my meetings for tomorrow. And the day after.” Dylan blinked. Brittany, seated across from him, did the same. They spoke at the same time. “Why?” “What?” Bradley’s smile turned wry as he slid the phone back into his pocket. “Freya texted me.”

That alone would have been enough to stun them. But he wasn’t finished. “The night after tomorrow,” Bradley continued. “Dinner.”

Dylan felt his brain skip a beat. That left three days. Three days before the severance finalized. Three days before the chosen bond was legally erased and the Moon would be free to do whatever ancient, terrible thing it had been waiting patiently to do.

Bradley met their stares without flinching. “I’m going to learn how to cook her favorite dish,” he said. “Myself.” Silence. Pure, stunned silence. Dylan stared at him, searching for any sign that this was a joke. There was none. Brittany’s mouth opened slightly, then snapped shut again as if her mind had tripped over the same impossible conclusion Dylan had. “You,” Dylan said slowly, “are going to cook.” Bradley nodded once. Brittany leaned back in her chair, eyes wide. “You are absolutely going to burn the estate down.” Dylan snorted despite himself. “That’s optimistic. I was thinking full structural collapse.” Bradley actually laughed. Not much—but enough to shock them both. “I’ll manage,” he said. “I have three days.” Brittany rose to her feet, studying him with a look that was sharp, assessing, and quietly dangerous. “You realize,” she said, “that this isn’t about the food.” “Yes,” Bradley replied. “That’s why I have to do it.”

He didn’t wait for permission. He never did. He simply gathered his things and left the room, moving with a sense of purpose Dylan hadn’t seen in him in years. The door closed behind him. The silence that followed was heavier. Brittany exhaled slowly. “Well. Hell’s frozen.” Dylan glanced at her. “You’re smiling.”

“Because he’s finally doing something wrong,” she said. “On purpose.” She picked up her phone, tapping the screen with quick, decisive movements. Dylan frowned. “What are you doing?” “I'm going to help our i***t Alpha out,” Brittany said easily. “Because he needs it.” Dylan stiffened. “Bradley will lose his mind if he finds out.” Brittany’s smile sharpened. “Oh, I know.” She paused at the door, glancing back at him. “But he’s too stubborn to dismantle himself properly. Someone has to help.” “You’re not telling him?” “Absolutely not.” Dylan hesitated. “You’re not telling me either, are you?”

Brittany’s eyes flicked toward him, knowing and unapologetic. “Nope. You talk to him. Constantly. I’m not risking that.”

Before Dylan could respond, she was already walking away, phone in hand, heels clicking with purpose. The door shut behind her.

Dylan sank back into his chair and stared down at his tablet, the schedule glaring back at him with brutal normalcy. He should have been reorganizing meetings. Redirecting resources. Managing fallout. Instead, his thoughts stayed fixed on one thing.

Bradley had been raised to be an Alpha before he was raised to be a person. Every instinct he had was about control—containment, silence, endurance. Love, to him, had always been something managed rather than expressed. And now— Now he was trying to cook. For a woman who had already learned how to live without him. Dylan rubbed a hand over his face and exhaled slowly. He had seen Bradley face hostile packs, corporate sabotage, political maneuvering that would have crushed weaker wolves.

This? This was the fight that might finally break him. Or save him. Dylan wasn’t sure which scared him more.