The Begging Alpha

Devastation

(Freya)

Freya expected to see him at breakfast. It was a small thing—routine, ingrained, almost meaningless—but the absence registered immediately. The long table was set, coffee already poured, steam curling lazily into the air. The house was awake. Servants moved quietly through their tasks. Everything functioned as it always had. Except Bradley wasn’t there.

She poured herself a cup of coffee anyway, wrapping her fingers around the warmth, and waited. Minutes passed. Then more. The clock on the wall ticked steadily forward, each second a faint tap against her nerves. Red Dreams, she thought. The idea sat uneasily in her chest. Bradley didn’t drink. Not ever. He tolerated alcohol at public events, sipped when required, but never indulged. Never needed to.

Still—She turned to one of the maids passing through the kitchen. “Has the Alpha been up?” The woman hesitated. Just a fraction too long. “No, Luna,” she said carefully. “The master bedroom door is still locked.” Freya frowned. “Locked?” “Yes, Luna.”

Bradley never locked the door.

Ever.

Something cold slid down her spine. She told herself not to overreact, told herself that exhaustion, stress, or the drink might explain it. Even so, her feet were already moving before her mind caught up. The hallway leading to the master bedroom felt longer than usual. Quieter. The door stood exactly as she’d left it days ago—solid, unmoving, utterly closed to her. She lifted her hand and knocked.

Nothing.

She knocked again, softer this time. “Bradley?” There was movement inside. A shuffling sound. Then a dull thud—heavy, unmistakable, like a body hitting the floor. Her breath caught. “Bradley,” she called again, more urgently now. “Are you awake? Are you alright?” A sound came from the other side of the door—low, slurred, barely coherent. “I’m— I’m fine.”

It was not fine.

Her hand hovered uncertainly as she knocked again. “You don’t sound fine.” There was fumbling at the door. Metal scraped against metal. The lock rattled, disengaged abruptly—and the door was yanked open. Freya gasped. Bradley stood before her in complete disarray. His hair was a tangled mess, dark strands falling loose around his face as if he’d run his hands through it again and again. He was still wearing his suit from the night before, but it was stained—dark splotches across the fabric, carelessly spilled, as though he hadn’t even bothered to avoid it. His eyes were bloodshot, red-rimmed and swollen, his face slack with exhaustion and something far worse. He looked… broken.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Freya took an involuntary step back, one hand flying up to cover her mouth as the shock hit her fully. This wasn’t the controlled Alpha she knew. This wasn’t even the man she’d left behind emotionally. This was devastation made visible. Bradley looked at her. Just looked. Then, without a word, he closed the door. The lock clicked back into place.

Freya stood there, stunned, heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat. For a brief moment, she thought she heard it—muffled, raw, unmistakable. Crying. She swallowed hard, shaking her head as if to clear it. Did hearing about the severance hit him that hard? The question rattled around her mind without finding purchase.

She turned away. Back in the kitchen, she steadied herself before speaking. “Please inform Dylan that the Alpha won’t be out today,” she told the maid quietly. “He’s feeling… unwell.” The woman nodded and hurried off. Freya forced herself to sit, to eat something, to finish her coffee even though it tasted bitter and wrong. She was still there when the front doors opened again. Dylan entered first. Jasmine followed close behind him. “Morning,” Dylan said carefully. “Jasmine arrived earlier than expected. I brought her in.” He paused, scanning the room. “Where’s Bradley? He’s usually—” “Not well,” Freya interrupted gently.

Dylan’s brow furrowed. Freya met his gaze, then glanced briefly at Jasmine before looking back. “Maybe you should check on him,” she said. She reached into her bag and pulled out a slim file, holding it out to Dylan. “This is for him.” Dylan took it without opening it, his expression darkening as the weight of the moment settled in his hands.

Freya finished eating quietly as Jasmine filled the silence—talking about logistics, space, work. About the shop. About how she was bringing Freya in as a top-level designer. “You’ll have your own studio,” Jasmine said brightly. “At home. Big windows. Northern light. And the spare bedroom has its own bathroom—” Freya smiled faintly, nodding as she listened. Once she finished her coffee, she stood, set her plate in the sink, and turned to Jasmine. “Let’s get my things.” Packing didn’t take long. She didn’t want much. Supplies. Dresses. Shoes. Pieces of a life she intended to rebuild from the ground up.

When they reached the driveway, Freya stopped short. The car waiting there was unmistakable. A Jaded Wolf. Sleek metallic green, the paint catching the light like a living thing. The soft top folded neatly back, the doors angling upward rather than out. The hood bore subtle lines that formed the suggestion of a wolf’s grin—sharp, deliberate, unapologetic. Freya stared. “Jasmine…” “My personal car,” Jasmine said with a grin. “I don’t drive it often. Usually take the SUV for work.”

Freya shook her head, stunned. They loaded what little she had into the car. Before leaving, Freya stepped briefly into Bradley’s office. The room smelled faintly of leather and metal and him. She crossed to the desk and placed her mate ring carefully on the closed laptop.

Then she turned and walked out. She could hear voices down the hall—Dylan and Bradley—but she didn’t stop. She got into the car. And drove away.

(Dylan)

Dylan knocked once. Then again. From inside the room came a hoarse, miserable sound. “Freya… go away. I don’t want you to see me like this.” Dylan snorted. “I’d make a damn ugly Freya, Alpha.” There was a pause and a click. Then: “Come in.” Dylan opened the door—and froze. The room looked like it had been hit by a hurricane and a tornado at the same time. Clothes discarded. The bed unmade. Bradley sat slumped on the edge of it, hair wild, suit ruined, eyes red and hollow.

Then Dylan saw the bottle.

On the floor.

Empty.

His blood ran cold. “You drank all of that?” Dylan demanded. “Bradley, a cup of Red Dreams is enough to knock a wolf on his ass.”

Bradley didn’t answer. “You’re not going into work today,” Dylan said firmly. “I’ll cancel everything.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “How are you going to stop the severance?” Bradley broke. He folded forward and sobbed—openly, uncontrollably—right in front of Dylan.

Dylan stood there, stunned. He had never seen Bradley cry. Not once. Not even when they were kids and Bradley had broken his arm. Not ever. And now— Dylan closed the door quietly behind him and stayed. Because whatever came next, his Alpha wasn’t facing it alone.