Bound to the Alpha’s Shadow

3.

Mid-knock, the door was yanked open like the man had been standing behind it with his hand already on the knob.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, his soft gray T-shirt clinging in such a way that I couldn’t help but notice. His dark hair was just messy enough to look intentional, and his jawline looked carved, like whoever made him had been in a mood. His eyes—deep, dark, impossible to ignore—stared right at me for one beat too long.

“Hey. You must be Mags,” he said.

I frowned. Only my sister called me that. And maybe Eric, once or twice, back when things were good.

But coming from him? I didn’t hate it.

He reached out like he was going to shake my hand, then paused, blinked once, and tucked it into his hoodie pocket instead. Still watching me.

I shifted my weight, unsure if I should speak or wait for him to reboot.

“I’m Roman,” he said. “Roman Velasquez.”

“I’m Maggie James. Nice to meet you.”

The space behind him was both cozy and chaotic. Sunlight flooded in through the huge windows. Plants on every surface. Mismatched throw pillows. A record player spinning something jazzy. A pair of dumbbells under the coffee table. It shouldn’t have worked, but for some reason it did.

He stepped back. “You wanna come in or...?”

I nodded, still processing everything at once, and stepped inside.

He led me on a short but efficient tour. “This is the kitchen. I meal prep. Like, aggressively. That’s my room. That’s your potential room. Bathroom’s shared, but I don’t linger.”

“Good to know. So, why do you need a roommate?”

He shrugged, pulling open a cabinet to reveal an aggressively organized spice rack. “I have the extra room. Rent helps. I make decent money, but I like cutting costs. Efficiency’s kind of my thing.”

That tracked. The books on his shelf were color-coded and arranged by size.

“These shelves are cedar,” he added casually, patting one of them. “I tested seven woods. Cedar traps less scent. Most woods trap scent, so it lingers. It’s distracting.”

I gaped at him. “You tested wood?”

He nodded. “Well, yes. I had samples delivered. Smelled them under different conditions. Heat. Humidity. Rain. Cedar held up best.”

That wasn’t weird, exactly. Just very intense. But in a weirdly endearing way.

Roman asked me a few questions—how I handled noise, what my cleaning style was, whether I liked garlic (what was that about?)—and actually seemed to like my answers.

When he asked what I did for work, I said, “Graphic design. I work from home, mostly.”

“Good.” He nodded slowly. “That’s good.”

I wasn’t sure why, but it felt like I’d passed a test.

“Okay,” I said, glancing around. “So… the rent?”

“Fifteen hundred. Includes everything. First month due upfront.”

“How soon could I move in?”

“Tomorrow, if you sign the rental agreement now.”

He reached into a drawer and handed me a crisp document with a small binder clip and a sticky note that read “sign here” in very neat block letters. I scanned the first page. The usual jargon. Quiet hours. No pets. No shifters. Rent due on time.

Then I flipped to a separate sheet attached to the contract.

“That’s the roommate agreement. Something I added to the building’s standard contract, to make sure we’re on the same page about… err… everything.” Roman scratched his neck uncomfortably.

I hesitated with the pen in hand. My gut whispered this was too good to be true. I didn’t trust myself anymore. Not after Eric. Not after bending and breaking and contorting myself into a woman I didn’t even recognize.

But I looked around at the light, the warmth, the faint scent of cedar.

Whatever. It’s not like my decision-making track record could get any worse. And what’s the worst that could actually happen? Another emotionally unavailable man? At least I wouldn’t be sharing a bed with him. I could go to my own room and shut the damn door.

I signed without reading any of the details. I needed a place to stay, and I could be the perfect roommate. I was certainly used to being invisible.

“Well,” Roman said, taking the papers and tapping them neatly against the counter to align the edges, “guess we’re roommates now, Mags.”

Chapter 2

Maggie

Eric hadn’t gone home last night.

He’d texted one of his short, flat lines that used to feel enigmatic but now read like cowardice.

Eric: Crashing at Rob’s so you can get the rest of your stuff, let me know when you’re out

No period. No good luck. No closure.

I’d stared at the message long enough to start imagining things. Like maybe he wasn’t actually at Rob’s. Maybe he already had someone new. Some soft-voiced, herbal-tea-loving stranger with a neutral-toned wardrobe and a perfectly curated playlist for “intentional mornings.” Maybe that was why he ended things. Not because I was too much, or too loud, or not soft enough… but because someone else was already standing where I used to.

And still, I’d slept better than I had in weeks.

The bed at Eric’s apartment had felt like mine again for one last night. I starfished right in the middle and didn’t dream at all. When I woke up, it was with the rare kind of clarity that followed emotional exhaustion and ten solid hours of unconsciousness. After dressing and grabbing the last of my stuff, I went to my kickboxing class down in the Mission and kicked the s**t out of some poor imaginary opponent. Possibly Eric. Possibly myself. Hard to say.

Now, I was dragging boxes up three narrow flights of stairs to my new apartment in a century-old San Francisco building that definitely wasn’t made for moving day. My tank top clung to my back, and my hair stuck to my neck—the tang of sea air and city grit mixing in the hallway. My body begged for mercy. I probably shouldn’t have gone to kickboxing class this morning, but my brain had needed the outlet. Kickboxing was my first and longest committed relationship. It had never lied to me, never needed me to soften or shrink. It just needed me to show up and hit hard.

By the time I reached the third floor, my arms were trembling, and my shin had a mysterious bruise. I cursed under my breath as I nudged the box against my hip and knocked on the apartment door with my elbow. Somewhere outside, a bus hissed to a stop, and the bass of a passing car rattled the window glass.

No answer.

I fished out the keys Roman had given me yesterday and unlocked the door, fully prepared to be underwhelmed by the man who alphabetized his spices but didn’t believe in matching throw pillows.

Instead, I opened the door and found Roman Velasquez leaning against the fridge like a shirtless pagan god.