Chapter 21: Beta Wife
1397 Words
Dominic POV
She didn’t throw up in my car.
Thank the Moon.
She came close—too close—her body betraying how fragile she really was beneath all that stubborn strength. Watching her struggle just to keep herself upright made something cold settle in my chest.
What the hell was I thinking?
Letting her drink. Letting myself believe it would loosen her pain instead of magnifying it. I’d gambled with her well-being, and worse, I hadn’t even realized I was doing it.
I stood there, mentally tearing myself apart, when my Beta’s mate came down the stairs after helping Thumper into bed. She gave me a look—not accusing, not kind either. Just knowing.
“She’s asleep,” she said quietly. “And she’s exhausted in a way sleep won’t fix.”
I nodded once.
In the state she’d been in, I wouldn’t have allowed her to stay awake another minute. Her body had already been pushed past its limits—by fear, hunger, pride, and a world that kept demanding more from her than it ever should have.
I let out a slow breath and leaned back against the wall.
I really might be the most incompetent Alpha alive.
I could lose my phone tomorrow and shrug it off. I could lose money, property, territory—even blood—and still function. But the idea of my car being ruined had sparked irritation before my mate’s shaking hands did.
That realization made me sick.
Priorities. Balance. Control.
All things an Alpha was supposed to master.
The only thing today had truly given me was clarity.
Thumper wasn’t difficult. She wasn’t dramatic. She wasn’t broken.
She was holding pain she never learned how to set down.
And I knew that pain well.
It was the same kind that hollowed out my pack when we lost our lands. The kind that didn’t make you stronger—only quieter, more isolated, more convinced that survival meant doing everything alone.
Pain didn’t save us.
It didn’t save my family.
It didn’t save my friends.
And it damn well wouldn’t save her.
If I allowed it to keep eating at her the way it had tonight—if I stood by while she tried to destroy herself just to feel worthy—then I didn’t deserve to call myself her Alpha.
Or her mate.
Tonight wasn’t about fixing her.
It was about making sure she lived long enough to believe she didn’t have to bleed to be allowed to stay.
“Anna… thank you for coming on such short notice,” I said quietly. “I didn’t want my mother to overreact after everything that happened.”
She nodded once, practical as ever, then crossed her arms and looked straight at me.
“It’s fine. Rory has the pups tonight—I’ll owe him a very good mood later,” she said dryly. Then her expression hardened just enough to make my spine straighten. “But tell me why she was that drunk.”
I slipped off my jacket and handed it to her. She took it without ceremony, draping it over her arm.
“I wouldn’t have left her alone tonight,” she added, her voice lower now. “She’s not just tired, Alpha. She’s emotionally fractured. She has no sense of her own worth left. None. And the fastest way she’ll start feeling human again is by being part of the pack—by being needed. But that doesn’t answer my question.”
I swallowed.
So I told her the truth. Or as much of it as I could without tearing something open in myself.
About the restaurant.
About the argument.
About the way Thumper looked at herself like she was already half gone.
About how I thought—stupidly—that letting her drink might loosen the knot in her chest instead of tightening it.
When I finished, Anna let out a long, heavy breath and shook her head.
“Then my instincts were right,” she said quietly. “She’s not reckless. She’s heartbroken.”
Her words landed harder than any accusation.
“Alpha Dominic,” she continued, using my name instead of my title, “you need to start giving her emotional safety. Not solutions. Not control. Support. She doesn’t need to be fixed—she needs to be seen.”
I stayed silent, listening.
“Tomorrow,” Anna went on, “bad news is coming for her. I don’t know exactly what shape it’ll take, but I can feel it. And when it does, she’s going to need you steady. Not reactive. Not commanding. Just… there.”
She paused, then softened slightly.
“I’ll stop by in the morning with the pups before school. Let her see something normal. Something warm. But tonight?” Her gaze flicked toward the hallway where Thumper slept. “Check on her. Even if she doesn’t wake. She is lonely in a way that can kill someone slowly.”
She placed my jacket neatly on the sofa, gave a small bow out of respect—not obligation—and headed for the door.
When it closed behind her, the house felt too quiet.
And for the first time since I’d found my mate, I understood something terrifyingly clear:
If I didn’t learn how to protect her heart the way I protected my pack,
I might lose her without her ever leaving.
Taking my jacket, I went upstairs, stopping halfway when I caught myself staring down the hall that led to her room. I forced myself to turn away and change first. I didn’t want her waking to the sight of me still dressed for the world outside—still armored.
Once I was in sweatpants and a plain white shirt, stripped of titles and responsibility, I walked back down the hall.
Preparing the living room pull out bed, I then went back to her bedroom door.
I knocked lightly.
Once.
Twice.
No answer.
When I opened the door, she was already gone to the world—fast asleep, the kind of sleep that only comes when the body finally gives up fighting. She was curled slightly on her side, wearing the soft pajama set my mother had given her. It swallowed her frame, made her look smaller than she already was.
Too small for the weight she carried.
Her lashes were wet. Tear tracks dried faintly against her cheeks.
Something in my chest cracked.
I took a tissue from her nightstand and, with careful fingers, wiped her face as gently as I could, like she might break if I pressed too hard. She stirred but didn’t wake, only frowned slightly before relaxing again.
Leaving her alone like this didn’t feel right.
Not tonight.
Carefully, slowly, I slid an arm beneath her knees and another behind her shoulders and lifted her. She weighed nothing—and that terrified me more than anything else today. She sighed softly against my chest, instinctively curling closer, and I froze for a heartbeat before continuing.
I carried her down to the main living room where the pull-out bed waited, the space open and familiar, not as confining as her room. Somewhere she could rest without feeling trapped.
I laid her down gently, then went back for blankets—fuzzy ones, warm, the kind that smelled like clean cotton and safety. I brought pillows too—hers and mine—arranging them until she looked settled, supported, held even without arms around her.
I turned the television on low, letting the soft murmur of sound fill the quiet so the silence wouldn’t swallow her whole.
Then I lay down beside her.
Not crowding.
Not claiming.
Just there.
She shifted almost immediately, drawn by instinct more than thought, pressing closer until her head rested against my arm. Her fingers curled into my shirt, not gripping—just anchoring.
That was all she needed.
And for the first time that night, I allowed myself to breathe.
I didn’t push her to talk.
I didn’t ask her to explain.
I didn’t demand she trust me.
I stayed.
If she needed space, I would give it.
If she needed strength, I would be it.
If she needed silence, I would guard it.
Tonight, at least, she wasn’t alone.
And I would do everything in my power to make sure she never felt like she had to be again.
- Writer
