The Begging Alpha

Hope & Regret

(Bradley)

Bradley woke before his alarm. For a moment he didn’t understand why. Then it came back to him. The kiss. It replayed in his mind with startling clarity—the warmth of her mouth, the way her fingers tightened in his, the way the world had narrowed to nothing but her breath and the quiet hum of the night. He lay there staring at the ceiling, and something unfamiliar curved across his face. A smile. Not the polite one. Not the controlled one. A real one.

He pushed himself upright and walked into the bathroom, splashing water on his face before lifting his head to the mirror. The man staring back at him looked… different. Less hollow. His brown eyes weren’t flat this morning. There was something alive in them. Something almost boyish. He touched his jaw, studying the expression. It didn’t look forced. It looked natural. And that alone felt like victory.

He dressed carefully—not obsessively, just intentionally—and made his way downstairs. The estate was as quiet as ever, the air cool and composed. Mrs. Halloway was already in the kitchen. “Good morning,” he said.

She glanced up, then blinked. “Good morning, Alpha.”

He poured coffee himself. Took his plate. Sat down. Ate without rushing. When he finished, he stood, carried his plate to the sink, and rinsed it before setting it aside. “Thank you,” he said simply.

The maid froze. “…You’re welcome, Alpha.” She stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

Bradley didn’t even notice. He walked out the front doors and found Dylan exactly where he always was—leaning casually against the car, tablet in hand, posture relaxed but alert. Dylan looked up. Stopped. “…You’re smiling.”

Bradley didn’t try to hide it. “Am I?”

“Yes. Should I be concerned?”

Bradley huffed a quiet breath. “Dinner happened.”

Dylan straightened. “And?”

Bradley climbed into the passenger seat. Dylan followed a second later, shutting the door. “Well,” Bradley began, staring out the windshield, “she asked difficult questions. I answered them.”

“That sounds promising,” Dylan said cautiously.

“She told me it hurt more because it proved I was always capable.”

Dylan winced. “Ah.”

“She left.”

Dylan nodded slowly. “And?”

Bradley hesitated. “…She kissed me.”

Silence. Dylan blinked once. “Before or after the emotional devastation?”

“After.”

Dylan leaned back in his seat. “Well. That’s… something.”

“It was perfect,” Bradley said quietly, almost to himself. “It felt right. Like it always should have.”

Dylan considered that. “A kiss is a good start.”

Bradley looked at him sharply. “It means there’s something left,” Dylan clarified. “It means she didn’t recoil. It means there’s still a thread. Thin, maybe. But there.”

Bradley exhaled slowly. “Maybe,” Dylan added carefully, “there’s a chance to save this.”

Hope is dangerous. But Bradley let it sit there anyway. They reached the office. Bradley stepped out, posture straight but lighter than it had been in months. He entered his office, set his things down, and finally checked his phone. A message waited. From Freya. His chest tightened instantly. He opened it.

The kiss last night was a mistake. The Severance is still going through.

The smile vanished. The room seemed to tilt. He read it twice. Then three times. His wolf stirred, blue eyes sharp beneath the surface.

No.

Bradley typed back immediately. Why? The message sent. No response. He stared at the screen, jaw tightening. He knew she was lying. He had felt her. Through that kiss. Through the way her body moved toward him without hesitation. That wasn’t obligation.

That wasn’t nostalgia. That was real. And she knew it too. He set the phone down slowly, eyes narrowing. If she wanted distance, he would respect it. But he would not accept a lie.

(Freya)

Freya had sent the message ten minutes ago, her thumb hovering for nearly a full minute before she pressed send. The words had felt necessary. Clean. Controlled. They had also felt like swallowing glass. The phone buzzed. Bradley’s reply.

Why?

Freya’s stomach twisted. She reached for the phone. Jasmine was faster. “Oh, absolutely f*****g not,” Jasmine snapped, snatching it from her hand. “You are not texting him back.”

Freya clenched her jaw. “I wasn’t going to,” she said evenly.

Jasmine shot her a look from across the boutique office. “You were absolutely going to. You are not getting dragged back into this because he cooked and looked sad.”

Freya glared. “Give it back.”

“No.”

“I’m not running back to him.”

“Then you don’t need to respond.”

Freya opened her mouth. Closed it. Because Jasmine wasn’t entirely wrong. The kiss replayed at the edge of her mind. Heat. Alignment. The way everything had felt… still. Perfect.

Her wolf stirred low in her chest, restless. That was right, it whispered.

No, Freya countered internally. It was emotional.

It was ours. Her wolf whined, sinking back in her mind.

Freya stood abruptly and moved to the drafting table. “I have work,” she said flatly. She picked up charcoal and began sketching with sharp, decisive strokes. A black dress. Structured. Elegant. Lace bodice layered over silk, intricate but controlled. The cups built to support and shape—intentional design, no compromise for women with fuller figures. Strength beneath delicacy. Her breathing evened as she worked. She would not admit—not out loud, not even to herself—that when he whispered that apology, it had felt like something breaking open. Because believing that meant risking everything again.

Jasmine watched her for a long moment before softening slightly. “You’re still going to meet Prince Karl,” she said.

Freya groaned quietly. “Yes.”

“I’m not letting you weasel out of it.”

“I said yes.”

Her wolf whined again. This isn’t right.

Freya pressed harder on the charcoal. “I’m not running back,” she muttered.

(Elsewhere)

In the private family wing of the royal estate, Princess Rayla sat cross-legged on the carpet, tablet balanced carefully on her knees. Sunlight filtered through tall windows behind her, catching in her dark hair as she watched the video for the third time.

“Mother,” she said with serious six-year-old authority.

Queen Aileen glanced up from her correspondence, one elegant brow lifting slightly. “Yes, Rayla?”

“There’s a wolf,” Rayla said. “He plays with pups.”

Aileen smiled faintly. “That sounds lovely.”

“No,” Rayla insisted, tapping the screen. “He teaches them. And listens.”

She turned the tablet toward her mother. On the screen, Alpha Bradley knelt at eye level with a small group of children. His sleeves were rolled up. His expression was relaxed, attentive—nothing of the distant Alpha present. A little boy tugged on his cuff while Bradley patiently explained the rules of checkers, nodding seriously as if the game carried diplomatic weight.

Queen Aileen watched in silence. “That’s Alpha Bradley of Red Eye,” she said thoughtfully. She remembered his name after meeting him once. Freya's chosen Mate.

Rayla nodded. “Can we go?”

“The next event isn’t for a few months,” Aileen replied gently.

“I know,” Rayla said. “But I want to.”

Aileen studied her daughter carefully. Rayla was not impulsive. Not dramatic. When she asked for something, she meant it. “Why him?” Aileen asked softly.

Rayla tilted her head, considering. “He looks… lonely.”

The Queen went still. Children noticed things adults dismissed. After a moment, Aileen reached out and brushed a hand over her daughter’s hair. “We will attend the next one,” she said. Rayla beamed, satisfied.

And in that small decision—born not of politics, but of a child’s instinct—a thread quietly pulled tighter in a story that was far from finished.