My glasses came off, but Blake just bent down and picked them up.
“Are we keeping the walkway?” Blake growled when my sprained ankle heeled. “And the wheelchair?”
“One of us might break our ankle,” Josh growled, looking around. “We’d better keep it.”
“No.” Dreydon looked at each Alpha, commanding authority. They’d listen to him, the most buff and tattooed. The leader. “If we need the walkway again, we’ll rebuild it. Easy peasy.”
“Easy peasy?” Blake scratched his forehead.
“Layla deserves her land,” Dreydon growled, putting his fist on Blake’s shoulder, “the way she wants it. I highly doubt she wants a wooden walkway on her property, when we could so easily disassemble it, saw the beams for firewood, and roast marshmallows to make s’mores for her tonight.”
I could hardly believe my ears.
“Yes…” My whisper trailed off. “I would like some s’mores, please.”
The Alphas worked tirelessly all afternoon.
They ripped apart the walkway—the one they’d built in just three days for my sprained ankle recovery—and soon, we were having a fire by the lakeshore.
Blake smiled, rubbing my backside. “Sweet Layla,” he growled, his voice touching something sensitive in my heart. “If you need your walkway back, we’ll simply rebuild it.”
“It was easy for us to do, Layla.” Josh smiled.
I pouted sticking up my nose. “I could build it too,” I huffed, focused on my marshmallow. “If I pleased.”
Dreydon looked at Josh, then Josh looked at Blake.
All three Alphas nodded.
“Yes,” Blake purred, eyes looking into mine. “You could, Layla. You can do anything you put your mind to, and we’re so happy to be your Alphas.”
My heart fluttered, and I had to stuff my cheeks with s’mores to prevent myself from crying.
Blake spreadout sheets of crinkled paper. “Watch,” he ordered, dipping his quill in ink.
It was chilly outside, so Blake had pulled out his quill and ink and wrote poems for me.
He wrote me over nine poems, and I’d never read anything more beautiful.
“No, Layla.” The strong, powerful Blake tipped my chin up. “Don’t cry. You’ll stain your poems.”
“B-Blake,” I whispered, feeling like a fool. A fool in love… “No one’s written me poems before.”
“Your standards have been too low for too long, baby.” Blake’s voice came out in a purr, and my Omega responded to it. “An Alpha should always write poems for his Omega. On crinkly parchment paper that will never bend. Never wilt or fade. And always with quill and ink, my lady. Quill and ink stay fresh forever.”
Blake held me all afternoon, and I had three crying sessions. First, I couldn’t believe I had poems dedicated to me. Second, Blake smelled so good… and my Omega purred, unable to control herself.
She wanted to come out, and I had to touch my crystals and whisper a prayer to the fates to keep her locked in my chest.
Third?
It’s because Blake… was crying too.
Yes, when I looked up, I saw that the strong, robust Alpha was crying… from pure emotion, from how much he loved me.
I ticked my head up. “Alpha,” I muttered, my fingertip ghosting across his scruffy cheek. “Lips on mine, please.”
“No,” Blake growled, pain and torture in his throat. “You’re… too perfect, Layla. A perfect beauty in every way.”
