The Begging Alpha

There She Was

(Bradley)



Bradley had underestimated exactly how humiliating learning could be. Not because the food was difficult—once he stopped rushing, once he followed directions instead of trying to optimize every step, the dish came together surprisingly well. The beef rested properly in the crock pot, the broth reducing into something rich and savory, the vegetables soft but intact. The fried rice took longer, but after several failed attempts—too dry, then too oily, then burned outright—he finally found the rhythm. It tasted right. Not perfect. But right.

Mrs. Halloway tasted it herself, eyes narrowing in concentration before she nodded once. “You learned.” The praise hit harder than he expected. Bradley exhaled, tension draining from his shoulders. “I had a good teacher.” She snorted softly. “You had patience. That’s rarer.” She cleaned as she went, efficient, practiced, movements etched into muscle memory from decades in the same kitchen. Bradley watched her with quiet respect. She had been here longer than anyone. Longer than his parents’ Alpha reign. Longer than the estate itself, some days, felt like it had existed. When he was a boy, she had been assigned to him. Not officially, not on paper—but in practice. She had been the one who reminded him to eat, who patched his scraped knees without comment, who watched him learn how to fold himself into something smaller than he wanted to be. When he became Alpha, he had made sure she stayed.

She wiped her hands and turned toward the dining room. “Now,” she said, “we set the table.” Bradley followed her, confidence draining instantly. The dining table was long, polished, and utterly hostile. “This,” he muttered, staring down at the place settings, “is where everything falls apart.”

Mrs. Halloway raised an eyebrow. “It’s a table.”

“It’s an equation,” Bradley said grimly.

She slid a plate into position. “Plate.”

“Plate,” he repeated, nodding.

“Forks on the left.”

“Plural?”

“Yes.”

“Why plural?”

“For different courses.”

“Why.”

She sighed. “Because humans are complicated.”

Bradley rubbed his face. “This is rocket science and I’m the equivalent of someone who never attended school.” Mrs. Halloway laughed—quiet, warm, entirely unafraid to let him hear it. “Sit,” she said, pushing him gently toward a chair. He obeyed, pressing a bag of ice to his forehead, skin flushed where he’d misjudged a cabinet door earlier. He leaned forward, forehead resting against the table with a low groan. “Why,” he muttered, “does love require silverware geometry.” She patted his shoulder. “Because it’s not about the table.” He peeked at her. “Then what is it about?

”

She sat across from him, folding her hands. “It’s about showing care in a language someone else understands.” Bradley went still. “You were never taught that,” she continued gently. “You were taught to survive. To perform. To endure.” His jaw tightened. “So we go slowly,” she said. “Because you don’t learn tenderness by rushing. And because if you try to master everything at once, you’ll panic and retreat.” He swallowed. “I do that?” “Yes,” she said, softly. “But not tonight.” She stood and adjusted one fork, then another. “We’ll do this one step at a time. You don’t need perfection. You need intention.” Bradley nodded once. And for the first time, he believed her.

The day of the dinner arrived too quickly. Bradley stood alone in his room, staring at his reflection. The suit fit like it always had—because Freya had made it. Every seam perfect, every line tailored to his body in a way no designer ever matched again. He had kept it immaculate. Pressed it himself. Cleaned it himself. He wore her ring openly now, the band visible against the dark fabric, not hidden beneath gloves or sleeves. The chain rested against his chest beneath the suit, the second ring warm against his skin. His black hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, sleek and controlled. His jaw was set, but his eyes—blue, sharp—held something restless beneath the surface.

He sprayed the cologne once. Infrared. Spicy. Warm. A gift she had given him years ago. “You smell like confidence,” she had said then. He hoped it still meant something. A knock came at the door. “Alpha,” a guard said respectfully, “Luna Freya has arrived. Dropped off by Jasmine Hale.” Bradley’s breath caught. “I’ll meet them,” he said. He walked through the estate, steps measured, posture composed. The staff watched him with quiet curiosity. No one spoke. Outside, the car had just come to a stop. Jasmine exited first, black hair gleaming in the light. Freya followed a heartbeat later, red hair catching the air as she straightened.

Bradley’s wolf surged forward instantly. There she was. His chest tightened, eyes softening the second they found her. She was dressed for the occasion—not extravagant, but intentional. Elegant lines. Controlled grace. The kind of beauty that didn’t need permission. She leaned toward Jasmine, whispering something. Jasmine smirked. Bradley’s wolf growled low in his chest. Something was wrong. He felt it immediately—the tightness in Freya’s shoulders, the way she held herself just a fraction too rigid. His wolf bristled, instincts flaring. Danger wasn’t always loud. Sometimes it was quiet and cold.

Freya turned toward him.

She didn’t smile.

The absence hit harder than anger ever had. A sharp pang went through him, deep and immediate, but he didn’t let it show. He straightened, shoulders back, expression neutral. “Freya,” he said softly. Her eyes met his. Nothing softened.

Something inside him clenched painfully. Whatever was coming—He wasn’t ready. But he would face it anyway.