Love Letters from an Alpha by Anya Byrne Page B

body, imagining different hands on his skin—the hands of
his hopeless crush.
    By the time his routine ended, Owen was burning in the fires
of arousal, but so were many of the members of his audience. Thankfully, that
manifested in a lot of bills thrown his way. Owen highly suspected his tips had
passed Loneheart's by far, but he couldn't really muster any enthusiasm over
the money. He looked toward the table, his heart clenching with something he
didn't dare to acknowledge. Finally, he retreated backstage, breathing hard—and
not because of the acrobatics he'd done during his dance.
    Why did that stranger have such an effect on him? The man had
never approached him, and for a while, Owen hadn't even known how his secret
admirer really looked. Owen had eventually stolen a few glimpses of him after
the show was over, and he was always left dumbstruck at the stranger's dark
handsomeness.
    Since then, Owen always dreamed about his admirer, wondering
what his deep black eyes hid, if he was imagining the emotion he'd thought he'd
seen. He dreamed about the man's large body pressing him into the mattress of
their bed as they made love. It was insane, and Owen hated himself for not
being able to let go.
    In his defense, maybe he'd have tried to bury it all deep. He
was no child, and he understood that for the patrons who came here, he was
basically just a piece of meat. A man like that was completely out of his
reach. He would have perhaps been able to squash the fantasy and let the spark
of hope fizzle—if not for the letters.
    Dancers were not allowed to receive any presents from
admirers—club's rule. But the letters were different. At first, Owen had
thought V wouldn't want him to accept the missives, but she didn't seem to
care, and in fact, almost encouraged it. It was a good thing, because after
each of his routines, the letters were always there without fail.
    That knowledge helped him walk away from the stage, and from
the table with the mysterious stranger. When he reached his dressing room, he
was not disappointed. As always, a bright red rose was waiting for him, and
beneath it, a lone envelope.
    With trembling hands, Owen picked up the flower and inhaled
deeply. He could never get tired of the scent of the beautiful blooms. He loved
roses, but he found that the flowers that could be purchased in shops often had
no scent. They were beautiful, but lacked... soul. Not so with the roses Owen
received. It meant something, and it conveyed the very same sentiment the
letters hinted to.
    Owen set the rose aside and reached for the missive, already
far too greedy to find out what message was waiting for him. He instantly
recognized the now familiar script and practically drank in the written lines.
    "My incubus,
    As I write these words, you are just finishing your
routine. It never ceases to amaze me how you move the way you do, despite being
just a human. I wish..."
    There was something crossed out, and Owen grinned. He found
that charming, because in a way, it made it obvious that the letter truly
expressed genuine emotions.
    "There are many things I would wish to tell you, but
it feels like I never have enough time. I should not burden you with my
problems, but somehow, even if we've never met, I believe I can trust you. I
can have faith in us."
    Owen's heart started to flutter as he continued to read. His
mysterious admirer had indeed told him many things, and Owen had replied. There
were never actual details, just enough to make it clear that the stranger was
under a lot of pressure from what seemed to be a very demanding family, or
perhaps a business. Owen always wrote back and left the letters with V, and
although he didn't really feel qualified to provide advice to anyone, he hoped
he'd helped. This seemed different, though. Tonight was different.
    "I've tried to live for other people for so long, my
beautiful rose," the message went on to say. "My family..
Everyone I've ever loved showed me a way they thought was