Alpha Mate at the Gas Station

Chapter 45: Comfort during the storm

Dominic POV

The house emptied slowly, one by one, until the quiet settled in the way only safety can bring.

Rory lingered, I felt it. He had something to say, something important—but the moment Thumper flinched at the sound of hands clapping, every instinct in me sharpened. I linked him without looking his way.

‘Not now. Not until she’s steady.’

He understood. He always did.

Thumper was curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked beneath her, wearing one of my shirts that had a hoodie like it had always belonged to her. It swallowed her frame, brushed her thighs, and somehow made her look smaller and stronger at the same time.

She loved pizza.

Not normally—her way.

She picked the pineapple off slice by slice, set each piece aside with care, like she couldn’t quite bring herself to waste it. I never understood it, but I never teased her either. Loving someone meant learning their odd little rituals, embracing at times and protecting them.

I had already ordered her favorite through the link. It was on its way.

Preparedness calmed me. It always had.

She was different now.

Not worse. Not broken.

Just… changed.

Her hair had grown shaggy, softer around her face. Her body carried quiet proof of what she had survived, of what she had held—even briefly. My wolf felt it too, restless and aching, not with hunger but with reverence.

She had carried our pup.

Even for a heartbeat.

That alone made her sacred to us.

The urge to pull her close, to pin her down and remind the world she was claimed, rose sharp and demanding—but I swallowed it whole. My wolf snarled at the restraint, but he listened.

Consent mattered.

Choice mattered.

She mattered.

The pizza arrived. We ate together on the sofa, backs against the couch, a ridiculous comedy show playing softly in the background. I laughed louder than usual, just to hear her small smile when she caught me overdoing it.

Eventually, she shifted.

Just a little.

Her shoulder pressed into my chest. Her breath slowed. When I wrapped an arm around her, she didn’t tense—she melted.

That surrender wasn’t weakness.

It was trust.

My wolf purred, low and deep, the sound vibrating through my ribs. She felt it. I knew she did. Her fingers curled into my shirt like she was anchoring herself to something real.

I turned the volume down before she could ask.

She was quiet for a long time.

Thinking.

Gathering courage.

I kissed the top of her head—slow, deliberate—and nudged my nose against hers in the smallest, gentlest nuzzle. Not claiming. Not demanding.

Just here.

“Dom…” she said finally, voice barely louder than the television’s hum.

I stayed still.

“I don’t know how to say this without making it sound wrong,” she continued. “And I don’t want to upset you. I’m not accusing you of anything—I just… I need to feel safe in my own head.”

My chest tightened.

I tilted my forehead against hers.

“You won’t upset me,” I said quietly. “You never do by asking.”

She swallowed.

“How did I end up in the Ariott estate?”

That was it.

The moment.

The place where healing didn’t come from comfort anymore—but from truth.

I didn’t answer right away.

Instead, I held her closer, grounding her with warmth, with heartbeat, with the simple proof that she wasn’t alone anymore.

And in that space—between breaths, between fear and trust—I knew this was where we truly began again.

Not as Alpha and Luna.

Not as fate and bond.

But as two people choosing each other—carefully, honestly, and with love strong enough to survive the truth.

Gulping down my saliva, I answered with only what I truly knew.

“To be honest…” my voice stayed low, careful, “…before you were taken from me in the backyard, everything I know comes from what my wolves told me afterward.”

I watched her closely, gauging every breath, every flicker in her eyes.

“From what I understand, a friend of mine—one of my pack—her name is Sabrina. She owed me a debt. She represented you during your divorce from your first husband.” I paused. “Do you remember that?”

She frowned slightly, her fingers tightening in my shirt, searching her memory like it might hurt her if she pushed too hard.

“I…” she hesitated, then her eyes lit faintly. “The woman I thought you dated?” she asked softly. “It was at a market… or something like that. A small one. It was right after a blonde woman harassed me.”

She looked at me, hopeful and uncertain all at once.

“She had black hair,” she added. “That was Sabrina… right?”

Pride bloomed in my chest—not sharp, not loud—but warm and steady. She was trying. Fighting through the fog for herself.

I smiled gently, lifting a hand to brush my thumb along her cheek.

“You’re right about how Sabrina looks,” I said softly. “And the place you remember wasn’t a market—it was our workplace. The gas station next to the apartment complex.”

Her brows knit together.

“And the blonde?” I continued, voice calm. “That was your ex-husband’s new wife.”

Her breath hitched slightly, but I didn’t let the moment linger in pain.

“You only got one thing wrong, my little Bunny.”

She looked up at me, surprised, searching my face.

“I never dated Sabrina.” I leaned closer, resting my forehead against hers so she could feel my truth as much as hear it. “Not then. Not ever.”

Her lips parted, eyes wide.

“The only woman I’ve waited my entire life for…” I whispered, slow and certain, “…is you.”

And in that moment, I didn’t need her to remember everything.

I only needed her to feel safe enough to believe me.

She didn’t know how to handle it back then—and I could see that it still haunted her now.

Her voice trembled, not loud, not dramatic, but fragile in a way that told me this question had lived inside her far too long.

“But why do I feel like Sabrina… like the blonde woman… and so many others I’m starting to remember—why do they all look perfect compared to me?” she asked. “Why do I feel like I’m always the less one? In my looks… in my work… in everything. Why do I feel like that?”

Each word landed like a quiet cut.

I didn’t interrupt her. I didn’t rush to fix it. I let her finish, because this wasn’t insecurity—it was damage.

And the fact that she was finally saying it out loud meant she trusted me enough to bleed where I could see it.

I felt grateful for that… and furious at the same time.

Grateful that she felt safe enough with me to speak her heart.

Furious that the man before me—the man who was never going to protect her—had taught her to believe this about herself.

It burned to know she had learned how to voice her pain while trapped with Mario. Burned to know someone else had been there when she first broke, when it should have been me.

But I swallowed that anger. Because she didn’t need my rage.

She needed my truth.

I shifted slightly so she was fully against me, one arm wrapping around her back, the other resting over her heart—steady, grounding.

“Bunny,” I said quietly, not sharp, not defensive. “You feel like that because someone taught you to.”

She stiffened just a little.

“People don’t wake up one day believing they are less,” I continued. “That belief doesn’t come from nowhere. It’s planted. Fed. Reinforced.”

I tilted her chin gently until she had to look at me.

“Mario and your fist husband surrounded you with women he wanted you to compare yourself to. They praised them where you could hear it. Withheld praise from you. Made you feel replaceable so you’d try harder. Smaller. Quieter.”

Her breath hitched.

“That wasn’t love,” I said firmly. “That was control.”

I pressed my forehead to hers, my voice lowering, soft but unshakable.

“You are not less because of how you look,” I said quietly, making sure every word landed where it needed to. “And not because of what your body has done… but because of what it is.”

I brushed my hand slowly down her side, not possessive, not demanding—just present.

“Your body was never meant to compete with anyone else’s. It was made exactly as it is for the man who could see you clearly. For the man who would worship you, not reshape you.”

A faint smile touched my lips as I added softly,

“Just like you order pineapple pizza only to remove every piece before eating it—your way, unapologetically—you never fit into anyone else’s expectations. And that doesn’t make you wrong. It makes you yours.”

I leaned in closer, moving her head a bit as my forehead resting against hers presses.

“There is a man laying beside, staring right in front of you who waited his entire life to touch you without changing you. To desire you without comparing you. To want your body not because of what it could give him—but because it is you.”

Her breath caught.

“You were worthy before you ever carried life,” I continued gently. “You were worthy when you were thinner. When you were stronger. When you were lost. When you were surviving.”

I pressed a kiss to her hair, reverent.

“And yes,” my voice softened further, “your body carried our child—even if only for a short time. That doesn’t define your value, but it does prove your strength. It proves how deeply your body knows how to love.”

I pulled back just enough to look at her.

“But hear me clearly, Bunny—if that had never happened, if it never happens again, you would still be everything.”

My thumb traced small circles against her skin, grounding her.

“You don’t owe the world beauty.

You don’t owe anyone softness.

You don’t owe me motherhood.”

I smiled, slow and certain.

“You only owe yourself the right to exist as you are. And I swear to you—this man has been ready to adore you exactly like that all along.”

And this time, I didn’t let her look away.

Her eyes shimmered.

“You are not less because of your work. You survived things that would have broken others. You adapted. You endured. You kept going.”

I brushed my thumb beneath her eye, gentle.

“And you are not less because other women exist.”

My voice softened even more.

“They may be loud. Polished. Confident on the outside. But none of them are you.”

I kissed her temple slowly, reverently.

“I didn’t choose you because there was no one else,” I murmured. “I chose you because the world finally made sense when I found you.”

She was quiet now, but she wasn’t shrinking.

She was listening.

“And Bunny,” I added, a faint smile breaking through, “the fact that you’re asking these questions now? That tells me something important.”

She blinked at me.

“It tells me the lie is starting to crack.”

And I held her there—steady, unmovable—until she felt it too.