The Begging Alpha

You've Been Working

(Bradley)

Freya didn’t sit down. Bradley noticed it immediately—even if he refused to give it weight. She entered the breakfast room quietly, dressed simply in jeans and a white shirt, her hair tied back in a way that suggested efficiency rather than presentation. She didn’t look at him as she crossed the room. She didn’t pause, didn’t ask what he wanted, didn’t linger. That alone should have told him something was wrong. Instead, he cataloged it and dismissed it just as quickly.

She served herself. Toast. Fruit. Coffee. Nothing elaborate. No plate carried over to the table they normally shared. She leaned against the counter, ate standing up, gaze already drifting back toward the hallway that led to her workroom. That was… unusual. Freya usually sat with him. Even on tense mornings. Even when they hadn’t spoken the night before. She treated breakfast like a ritual—something grounding, something shared.

Bradley took a sip of his coffee and watched her from behind the rim of the mug. She’s upset, he decided. She’ll come around. She always did. The memory of the launch flickered briefly through his mind—the warmth in his posture, the ease of conversation with someone who didn’t require him to be anything other than competent and familiar. He frowned slightly, irritation pricking. He hadn’t done anything wrong. The woman was a regional distributor. A partner. Someone he’d known long before Red Eye had become what it was. Before titles. Before expectations.

Before Freya.

Bradley pushed the thought aside and focused on his plate.

Freya finished quickly, set her mug in the sink, and wiped her hands with a towel. She didn’t look at him when she spoke. “I’ll be working today.” It wasn’t a request. He nodded. “Of course.”

She hesitated, just briefly—something tightening in her shoulders—and then she was gone, footsteps retreating down the hall. Bradley stared at the doorway a second longer than necessary. She’s sensitive, he told himself. Always has been. He finished his breakfast, rose, and placed his plate in the dishwasher himself. Habit. Order. Control. Sliding his coat on, he felt the house settle around him the way it always did—obedient, quiet, functional.

Outside, the morning air was crisp. Dylan was already waiting by the car. Bradley’s Beta had been at his side since they were teenagers—sharp-eyed, steady, infuriatingly perceptive. Dylan took one look at him and frowned. “What’s going on?” he asked. “Nothing,” Bradley replied, opening the passenger door. Dylan didn’t move. “That’s not nothing.” Bradley paused, then sighed. “Freya’s… having problems.” “With what?” Bradley shrugged, settling into the seat. “Feelings. Yesterday.” Dylan’s jaw tightened. “What happened yesterday?” “Nothing,” Bradley repeated. “She misread a situation.”

The engine started. The car pulled away from the curb smoothly. Dylan glanced at him from the driver’s seat. “She doesn’t usually misread you.” Bradley said nothing. The city slid past the windows—glass and steel, billboards and rising towers. This was his territory. His domain. Everything made sense here. Cause and effect. Profit and loss. Inside, his wolf shifted restlessly. Not angry. Not aggressive. Uneasy. Bradley ignored it.

His mind drifted—unbidden—back to the day it had all begun. He’d been summoned to the family office. His father sat behind the desk, expression neutral. His mother beside him, composed as always. “A match has been arranged,” his mother said. Bradley had known better than to ask if. He asked with whom. They slid the photo across the desk. Freya. Young. Striking. Red hair catching the light. Green eyes steady even through the lens. Middle class, his mother explained. Respectable. Useful. Not elite, but acceptable. A good pedigree—even if nothing by their standards.

Bradley remembered the anger that had burned through him then—hot, directionless. Not because of Freya. Because of the lack of choice. His wolf had raged, pacing beneath his skin, searching for something to tear apart. Dylan had been there that day too, standing just behind him, and later—alone—had said quietly: “You wanted a say.”

Bradley had said nothing. He’d learned long ago that protest changed nothing. Control was survival. Neutrality was armor. So he’d worn the mask. He had to admit—even then—that she was beautiful. Graceful. Poised in a way that suggested depth rather than fragility. He just didn’t know what to do with that. Affection hadn’t been taught. It hadn’t been modeled. Power had been.

The present snapped back into focus as the car slowed for traffic.

Bradley’s wolf shifted again—more insistently this time. Something’s wrong, it murmured.

Bradley frowned, irritation spiking. You’re imagining it.

The wolf fell silent—but not convinced. He leaned back in the seat, gaze forward, already constructing the day in his head. Meetings. Contracts. Numbers. Freya would calm down. She always did. What he didn’t see—what he refused to consider—was that this time, she hadn’t stayed at the table. And wolves, when they stopped sitting beside you, were already halfway gone.

(Freya)

Freya finished the final stitch and leaned back. The red gown hung from the mannequin like it had always known where it belonged. Deep crimson silk flowed clean and uninterrupted, the fabric catching the light with a muted richness that refused to shout. Lace had been worked into it so seamlessly it looked grown rather than sewn—threaded through the bodice and trailing down the skirt in patterns that suggested intention instead of ornament. The sleeves were sheer, soft as breath, clinging just enough to hint at shape without stealing focus. A thigh-high split cut the skirt—not reckless, not shy. Daring, but controlled. The neckline dipped into a gentle V, exposing just enough skin to draw the eye without crossing into anything vulgar. Power dressed as elegance.

Freya rose and circled the form slowly, fingertips brushing the fabric as if she were reacquainting herself with an old language. She had made dozens like this over the years. None of them had ever seen the world. Her phone buzzed softly on the table behind her. A message from security.

GUEST HAS ARRIVED.

Freya’s breath hitched—not with fear, but anticipation. She smoothed her shirt, wiped her hands once more, and turned just as footsteps approached the doorway. Jasmine stopped dead. “Oh my god,” she breathed. Freya smiled. Jasmine crossed the room in a daze, eyes glued to the gown. She reached out but stopped herself inches from the silk, as if afraid touching it might break the spell.

“Frey,” she whispered. “This is—this is you.” Freya’s chest warmed at the words. “I haven’t lost it,” Jasmine continued, reverent now. “I knew it. I told them. I told everyone you didn’t just disappear.” Freya exhaled softly. “I didn’t. I just… folded myself away.” Jasmine finally turned, eyes bright, expression fierce. “Why didn’t you call me?” Freya met her gaze. “Because if I did, I might not have survived staying.” That shut Jasmine up. She nodded slowly, then gestured around the room. “Are there more?”

Freya didn’t answer with words. She simply crossed to the far wall and pulled aside a curtain. Sketches. Mannequins. Racks of garments in various stages of completion—structured blacks, soft creams, daring jewel tones. Dresses that spoke in different voices but carried the same signature: balance, strength, restraint.

Jasmine let out a shaky laugh. “You’ve been working,” she said.

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Longer than anyone knows.”

Jasmine turned slowly, awe giving way to calculation—the kind that made her dangerous in the best way. “You know some of my clients are still yours,” she said. “They ask about you. Quietly. Carefully.”

Freya nodded. “I know.”

She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “I don’t want to take your place.”

Jasmine scoffed. “You built that place.”

“I want to share it,” Freya said calmly. “If you’ll let me.”

Jasmine stared at her—really looked this time. Then she grinned. “Oh, Freya,” she said softly. “They have no idea what’s coming.”

Freya glanced back at the red gown, fingers brushing the lace once more. Neither did Bradley. And for the first time in years, that didn’t hurt. It felt right.