Please Divorce Me, Alpha! {BL}

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The mattress was obviously responsible. There was no other explanation.

The sheets still held the impression of his body, and the scent that rose when I shifted was pure Lorenzo...cold, clean, and now layered with the faint warmth of sleep that somehow made it even more dangerous.

I forced myself to look away before my brain could start cataloguing how the morning light caught the lines of his back as he stretched.

I followed him into the bathroom several minutes later, mostly because I needed to wash the scent of last night’s humiliation off me and partly because I refused to let him think I was hiding.

Unfortunately, the bathroom was approximately the size of my entire childhood bedroom. There was a massive marble counter, two sinks, a large mirror, a shower that probably had better water pressure than most people’s houses, and enough expensive toiletries to stock a luxury department store.

The air still carried the faint steam of whatever shower he had taken earlier, and the residual heat made the space feel smaller than it should have.

Lorenzo stood at one sink brushing his teeth as though having a husband staring suspiciously at him from across the bathroom was a perfectly ordinary part of his morning routine.

I stared at our reflections. We looked ridiculous. He looked polished even half-dressed, with his dark hair slightly disheveled and his sleeves rolled casually to his forearms.

The bare skin of those forearms, pale, faintly veined, no gloves in sight and drew my eye longer than I wanted to admit. I looked like someone who had been kidnapped by a rich vampire and was waiting for the credits to roll. The contrast only made the whole domestic picture more unsettling.

Lorenzo reached for another toothbrush and held it toward me. I stared at it. Then at him.

"What’s that?"

"A toothbrush."

"I know what a toothbrush is."

"Then why did you ask?"

I angrily snatched it. The brief brush of his fingers against mine sent a ridiculous spark of awareness up my arm that I immediately tried to crush.

"I don’t like you."

"You’ve said a million times already, I’m starting to think you might actually love me."

I glared at him. He continued brushing his teeth. The corner of his mouth curved around the toothbrush in a way that suggested he was thoroughly enjoying every second of my discomfort. I wanted to throw something. Instead, I brushed mine. Marriage was beautiful.

The mirror reflected the two of us standing side by side in a bathroom that smelled like expensive soap and quiet victory on his part, and the longer I looked the more my internal panic started listing every possible way this morning could get worse.

Breakfast arrived shortly afterward. I had barely sat down before I attacked the food with the enthusiasm of a man who had spent his entire childhood being told that second helpings were a privilege reserved for people who deserved them.

There were eggs, pastries, fruit, toast, sausages, pancakes, yogurt, and something involving whipped cream that I refused to identify because I was too busy eating it.

The table between us felt both too long and not long enough, especially when his scent continued to drift across the space every time the air shifted.

Lorenzo sat opposite me with a cup of coffee. He wasn’t eating much. He was watching me. The intensity of that quiet gaze made every bite feel like a performance I had not auditioned for. I pointed my fork at him.

"If you’re going to stare, at least pretend you’re not."

His expression softened with amusement.

"You’re hungry."

"I’m always hungry."

"I’ve noticed."

"Good. Then stop looking surprised every time I eat."

"You ate four pastries."

"Five."

He looked at the empty plate. I nodded proudly.

"I have standards."

I figured that if I gave him the ick enough with my eating habits, it might help me in the long run by getting a divorce. Besides, which Omega who was born from a prestigious family eats like an animal around their hot Alpha?

The thought did nothing to stop the way his eyes tracked the motion of my fork, or the faint, almost fond curve of his mouth that made my stomach do something deeply inconvenient.

He laughed quietly. I immediately looked down at my food, hiding my blush. That sound was becoming dangerous. Not because there was anything romantic about it. Absolutely not. It was simply unsettling to hear Lorenzo laugh when I had spent nearly a year thinking of him as a man who had been personally designed by the concept of intimidation.

The low, warm edge to it wrapped around me almost as effectively as his arm had earlier, and I hated how easily it settled under my skin.

I reached for another piece of toast.

"You can stare all you want," I muttered. "One day I’m going to be long gone."

His eyes rested on me.

"Whatever you wish to believe, my dear."

I looked up, there was no anger in his expression. No threat. Just that maddening calm. The quiet certainty in his voice felt more binding than any raised volume could have managed, and the way he held my gaze made the air between us feel thicker.

Before I could answer, he leaned across the table and wiped a smear of whipped cream from the corner of my mouth with his thumb.

The touch was slow, the pad of his thumb lingering a fraction longer than necessary against the sensitive skin. Heat flared across my face so fast I was certain he could feel it.

I froze. He looked at the cream on his thumb, then at me, the emerald of his eyes had gone darker, softer, and the faint smirk that followed felt like a private joke I was not supposed to understand yet.

"How messy."

The soft murmur carried just enough warmth to make my pulse stutter, and the quiet, almost thoughtful sound he made afterward sent a fresh wave of panic straight through my chest.

"Give me that."

I reached for a napkin to wipe his finger, but he was faster, casually licking the cream from his thumb before leaning back with a triumphant smile.

The motion was unhurried, almost lazy, and the way his eyes stayed locked on mine while he did it sent a fresh wave of heat straight up my neck that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with how deliberately he was watching for my reaction.

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