Alphas Like Us (Like Us, #3)

by Krista Ritchie

“Dum spiro, spero.” I circled that phrase in my paperback. I know he took Latin in college, but I ask anyway, “You know what that means—” “‘While I breathe,’” he translates, “‘I hope.’”

But I’m distracted. By you-know-who. Not Voldemort. Someone hotter. Not that I think the villain in the Harry Potter books is even remotely hot—Christ, stop thinking.

My dad raised me to be like Ryke. Because he loved his brother more than he loved himself.

Brb crying

Connor is mental. He taught Maximoff intelligence, emotional restraint and confidence. Lo is emotional, the sarcastic, loving and empathetic pieces of him. And then Ryke is physical, all determination and stubbornness and unshakeable strength.

“It feels like every time I try to come up for air, someone else shits on you or me or us, and the only time I can breathe is when I’m looking at you.”

While I breathe, I hope.

It’s the little things. It really is.