Chapter 32: Alpha Egos and an Incubator

*Thelma*

There’s something seriously weird about these brothers. Like, not Deliverance level weird, but definitely cousins-that-don’t-hug-at-family-reunions kind of tension. They don’t talk like siblings. They talk like men who’ve shared a dark secret—and maybe a therapist.

I can’t read minds, but I swear if awkward silences were currency, these two would own every realm.

“You can go freshen up. Just to be safe, I will still send the doctor to come and have a look at you,” Kyle says smoothly, that usual controlling tone laced in faux concern.

“I don’t need permission to ‘freshen up,’” Tobias mutters, barely containing the exhaustion in his voice. He doesn’t look at Kyle. Just at me. He holds my gaze for a second too long, then dips his head—strangely respectful—before making his way up the stairs like a man who’s been through ten rounds with life and forgot to duck.

And then…

“So, why were you getting all friendly with my brother? ‘Oh, I want Tobias to give me a tour because no one here cares about me, blah blah blah.’ Did you ever ask me to give you a tour?” Kyle barks at me, like I’m a wayward employee and he’s running an HR department in hell.

What in the handsome demon brothers is his problem?

“Is that jealousy I hear? Ask who? You?” I scoff, my arms flinging into the air dramatically. “Have YOU met you? Have you ever tried having a conversation with yourself, Kyle? I promise you—it’s not a five-star experience.”

“Have I ever given you a reason to be too afraid to ask anything of me, princess?” he says, smugly. Of course. Because nothing says approachable like a 6’4’’ demon alpha who treats you like a science project with womb privileges.

I snort, loud enough to scare a crow off a cornfield. “Says the man who runs whenever things get too intense. The same man who sees me as nothing but a glorified incubator. You make me feel like I’m furniture that happened to come with a uterus, and now you want to control who I speak to? Newsflash, Alpha: I’m not your microwave!”

“You don’t need friends,” Kyle snaps. “What you need is a child… or have you forgotten?”

Wow.

Just… wow.

This man. This infuriating, audacity-wrapped-in-abs syndrome excuse of a man.

“One day,” I mutter, “hopefully soon, I will give you the wettest, most obnoxious wet willy this realm has ever seen. With magic. And maybe a side of spontaneous diarrhea. The audacity!”

I jab my finger toward him, eyes wide. “THAT is exactly why I need friends! To stop me from losing my sanity in this godforsaken ice palace of trauma. At least they would see me as a human and not a baby-making machine you hump when it fits your schedule!”

I’m pacing now. My emotions are boiling over like unattended soup.

“I can’t wait for this whole circus to be over. Maybe if you didn’t stop midway through sex like a confused teenager with commitment issues—and actually released your oh-so-precious Alpha seed—I’d be pregnant by now and one step closer to forgetting your emotionally unavailable face ever hovered over mine!”

His jaw twitches. Good.

“I’ll give you a child, Kyle. That was the deal. But just know I will loathe every second of it. Every. Single. One.”

I feel the heat building behind my eyes, those all-too-familiar traitor tears making their unwelcome entrance. But I won’t cry in front of him.

Not again.

I turn quickly, desperate to flee to the solitude of my room—my sanctuary of old socks and unfulfilled dreams—but as I pass him, Kyle reaches out and grabs my arm.

“Are you sure you loathe being with me?” he whispers, right against my ear.

His voice is low. Seductive. Almost tender. Almost… desperate?

For a brief second, I hesitate.

Is he… asking for reassurance? Is he actually feeling something? Or is this just the part where the manipulative demon pulls on your heartstrings with emotional confusion and bedroom eyes?

I lean closer, letting my lips hover near his cheek, my breath warm against his skin. A tear betrays me, sliding down as I whisper—

“I don’t just loathe being with you. I detest you, Alpha Kyle.”

I rip my arm from his grasp and walk away, my shoulders square but my insides shaking like a chihuahua in a snowstorm. The last thing I see as I glance back is his expression—a mix of guilt, fury, and maybe... something else.

But I don’t care. I can't care.

Not when I still have my dignity to cling to and a curse word with his name on it.