Alphas on Top(146)

“I know that,” I snap. “What the heck are you? The Incredible Hulk or something? Seriously, who opens a door to a bathroom like that?”

“Dad pointed out that you were in here. I didn’t even think. I just had to make sure you were okay.”

Now I feel bad. “Sorry, it just hurts,” I say softly, feeling like a total bitch. He always worries. Even when I'm safe, he worries, so now that I'm actually in danger, I might as well handcuff myself to him.

He kisses the mark. “So, why were you laughing?” he asks, wrapping me in a hug.

“I was laughing because I look like Harry Potter.” His eyes come back to my face and his lips twitch. I glare at him. “Now I’m going to have to give myself bangs to hide it so I don’t have to listen to your stupid brothers and the jokes they’ll make about it,” I say, pointing to my forehead.

“They love you.” They do, I know they do. We have become great friends. I know if Asher wasn’t around, I could count on any of them to help me out with whatever was wrong. And they aren’t perverted, just brotherly. For that, I am thankful.

Now Sven, he is a different story. He makes me uncomfortable. I’m not sure if it’s because he is handsome, or if it is just him as a person. Sometimes the way he looks at me or the words he uses makes it seem like he is coming onto me. But I’ve seen him in action when we all went to the bar together. I know that when he comes on to a girl, he doesn’t hold anything back. He is over-the-top aggressive and women still swarm him like a bee to honey. One day, when he meets a girl he’s serious about, she’s going to have to be really strong in order to deal with his personality.

“I know they love me,” I grumble.

“Is everything okay?” Mr. Mayson asks from outside the door. I step away from Asher and open the door. Mr. Mayson looks down at me. “What the fuck?” he asks, looking up at Asher.

“It’s fine. I just need to put some ice on it and take some aspirin,” I say, stepping around him.

“How did it happen?”

“It’s either because your son is the Incredible Hulk or he has a thing for Harry Potter,” I say over my shoulder. I laugh when I hear Asher groan.

“It’s my fault,” Asher says, picking me up and setting me on the counter, removing me from where I was standing in front of the fridge. “The door hit her when I shoved it open to get to her.” I watch him go to the drawer and grab a baggie then back to the fridge. He fills it with ice wraps it in a kitchen towel and brings it to me and presses it to my head.

“Thanks, honey,” I mumble.

“You’re welcome, baby. I'm sorry your day sucks.”

“Me too.” He kisses my temple and then looks over to his dad, but his eyes stop on the roses that are sitting on the counter.

“Some guy delivered those?” he asks. I swallow and look at Asher’s dad. He hasn’t told him about the card yet. Mr. Mayson looks at me then at Asher. “What aren’t you telling me?” Asher asks his dad.

“When I pulled up, November came outside and found a card.”

“Where is it?” Asher asks. I can see his body expanding and his muscles bunching under his shirt. Mr. Mayson hands Asher the card that is now inside a gallon zipper bag. The card is open so we can see the inside and outside of it. Asher looks at the front for a second and sees that it’s a picture of New York and then he flips the bag over. I can tell that he’s using all of his control to not rip the thing in half.

“What does this mean?” Asher sounds wild and nothing like himself.

I pull my phone out and Google the words that are written in the card. “The person who wrote on my living room wall also wrote this poem,” I tell Asher and his dad.

“We know the other poem is called November. What is this one called?” Asher asks.

“Anticipation,” I tell them and get a shiver down my spine when I read the poem aloud.

'Coming events cast their shadow before.'

I had a vision in the summer light—

Sorrow was in it, and my inward sight

Ached with sad images. The touch of tears

Gushed down my cheeks:—the figured woes of years

casting their shadows across sunny hours.

Oh, there was nothing sorrowful in flowers

Wooing the glances of an April sun,

Or apple blossoms opening one by one

Their crimson bosoms—or the twittered words

And warbled sentences of merry birds;—

Or the small glitter and the humming wings

Of golden flies and many colored things—

Oh, these were nothing sad—nor to see Her,

Sitting beneath the comfortable stir

Of early leaves—casting the playful grace