Torn By Trust (Bound by His Alpha #2)

Chapter 1

The bass thumps up through the soles of my boots as I step through the Blue Note’s front entrance, the sound settling into my bones before my vision adjusts to the darkness.

I’ve timed it so I arrive early enough for the live band to be warmed up, but late enough that the crowd density will help me blend in.

Cool winter air gives way to the heat of bodies packed together under the drop ceiling.

My nostrils flare at the layered scents of spilled alcohol, body spray that doesn’t quite cover sweat and pheromones, and underneath it all, the old wood that forms the bones of the place.

I tug my cardigan lower, letting it slide off one shoulder to expose the long, unmarked line of my neck. The nape guard hugs my throat with familiar pressure, the jewel dangling from the front, brushing the hollow of my throat.

In the glass behind the bar, a doe-eyed stranger with a sparkly clip holding back dark brown hair meets my gaze.

It took forty minutes to perfect this appearance, and it was worth every second.

I weave through the lounge, offering a quick thanks to the couple who clear a path for me. When I lean onto the polished counter, my crop top slides upward, exposing the fine chain at my waist.

When the bartender stops in front of me, I raise my voice to be heard over the music. “Whiskey sour, please.”

He dips his chin in acknowledgment and heads off to mix the drink. While he works, I lean back and survey the room.

A four-piece band plays a moody song on the stage at the back, the guitarist’s fingers flying over the strings while the drummer keeps the rhythm tight.

People cluster around small, high-top tables, leaning in to be heard, hands wrapped around glasses. A few have already migrated to the small dance floor, bodies swaying close together in the limited space.

Staff weave between patrons collecting empty glasses while bouncers hold the walls, searching the room for troublemakers.

The booths along the far wall offer more privacy to hide what hands do under the tables.

My drink arrives, and I take a small sip, letting the sweet-sour burn linger on my tongue.

As my head lifts again, my attention snags on a figure standing apart from the crowd near the far wall.

He puts no effort into standing out, which only attracts more attention.

Lean and long-limbed, with dark hair clipped close at the sides and left slightly longer on top, he’d verge on handsome perfection if not for the slight hook of a nose broken at least once and a mouth unfamiliar with easy smiles.

People give him a wider berth than necessary when they pass, avoiding even accidental acknowledgment, while the staff check in with him more often than anyone else.

My hindbrain registers him as an Alpha before I understand why I’m still staring at him, cataloguing the exact angle of his jaw, the particular stillness of him, and the way the dim light catches the pale silver of his irises.

I turn back to my drink.

The way the staff defers to him and the space he commands without trying… Orien Bellamy. People whisper his name on the street, always attached to Rowan Ward, the mysterious owner of this place.

I take another sip and let the whiskey burn its way down, willing the chill in my blood to follow.

Three-quarters through my drink, the hairs on the back of my neck rise, and I turn my head, scanning the crowd for the cause. An Alpha at one of the high tables has caught my scent, nostrils flaring as his attention locks onto me.

I turn back to my drink, but not before letting my focus drift to Orien one more time. He’s still watching the room, still motionless, still perfectly controlled.

The other man heads my way with a drink in hand. I track his movement through the reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He puffs out his chest and squares his shoulders in an attempt to appear bigger. Predictable.

I don’t turn as I bring my drink back to my mouth, using the motion to ease my elbow farther along the counter and open a gap between us small enough to seem accidental.

When he slides up next to me, I allow myself to appear surprised, a slight rise of my eyebrows the only acknowledgment.

His hand lands on my shoulder, thumb brushing bare skin where the collar of my shirt exposes my collarbone. “Haven’t seen you here before.”

I ignore him, focusing on the live band as they hit a heavier note, the bass vibrating up through the floor and into my thighs.

Not discouraged, he leans close, using the noise as an excuse. “You alone tonight?”

“I’m not interested.” I roll my shoulder in an attempt to dislodge his hand.

Instead of being discouraged, the Alpha’s hand moves to the back of my neck, turning possessive. “And I’m not used to being ignored. I asked if you were here with anyone.”

I risk another peek toward Orien’s position and find him closer now, lingering well short of the counter. Across the crowded room, his attention catches on mine, and heat coils low in my body.

I try to shut down the sizzle of awareness, clamping down on my pheromones before the Alpha beside me takes the subtle shift in my scent as a go-ahead to keep pushing.

No such luck. His pheromones push outward as his breath warms my ear. “How about I show you around?”

My hold on my pheromones loosens, sending out a thread of distress as my shoulders curve inward, and I tuck my chin down. “I’m here to enjoy the music.”

His grip on my neck tightens. “Hey, I’m just trying to be friendly. Don’t complicate this.”

Awareness ripples through the nearby tables, and several Omegas quietly distance themselves from us to avoid the pheromone overspill.

Orien lingers a few yards away, hands loose at his sides, not moving to intervene.

My stomach tightens, my pheromones growing thicker in the air as I wait for the moment where instinct should override restraint in any Alpha watching an Omega in distress.

It doesn’t come.

Which means I’m on my own.

“I said no,” I repeat, steadiness returning as my spine straightens. The Alpha blinks at the shift in me. “You should let go of me now.”

Instead, his grip tightens, rising temper rolling through him in visible waves. “And what exactly are you going to do—”

I seize his wrist with both hands, pivot into him, and slam his head into the bar. The music swallows the crack, and he crumples to the floor. I step back and release him. He doesn’t get up.

“Hey—” the bartender starts.

“I’m leaving.” I spread my hands in a show of surrender. “He’ll be fine in a couple of minutes.”

I retreat a step, running a hand over my hair and adjusting my sparkle clip as I lock down my pheromones again. As I do, Orien crosses the room toward me, and my heart does a double-tap as I freeze in place.

He moves without hurrying, paying no attention to the Alpha still sprawled on the floor. The crowd parts around him in subtle, instinctive waves reserved for dangerous Alphas.

He halts a breath away from crowding me. Up close, his irises appear even paler, nearly silver in the dim light. “You could have ended that sooner.”

I pull my cardigan back into place, smoothing the fabric over my hips. “I didn’t come here for a fight.”

“You came here for something.” His eyes rake over me, lingering on my bare midriff. “I’m still deciding what.”

My chin juts out, and I take a step closer, closing the distance he had left between us. “So you wanted to see what I’d do if that other Alpha manhandled me?”

A pause stretches between us as Orien doesn’t deny it.

I raise one eyebrow. “Did I pass?”

Amusement touches the corner of his mouth. “That depends on what you’re trying to accomplish.”

The music swells again, filling the moment with sound. Behind Orien, the Alpha stumbles to his feet, one hand pressed to his forehead, and he glares in our direction.

He starts toward us, his fists clenched and ready for a fight. But when Orien’s head turns toward him, the other Alpha’s bravado dissolves, and he backs away, disappearing into the crowd.

“People don’t usually stand there while an Omega is being harassed,” I accuse, needing his attention back on me and not happy with my desire. “They either intervene or turn away.”

Orien’s head cocks to the side, as if he finds me fascinating. “Do you need people to intervene?”

“No.”

“But you want them to?”

I puff my cheeks out at the question. “I came here to look pretty and be seen. Beating up someone twice my size ruins the image.”

“I think you look pretty,” he says as he bends down, his nostrils flaring as he takes in my scent, “while beating up someone twice your size.”

Around us, the bar has returned to normal, conversation rising to fill the gap, attention redirecting.

No one stares, but quiet flashes of curiosity keep drifting my way. The band shifts to a slower song, the tempo dropping to match the settling atmosphere.

“You handled yourself well enough,” Orien continues. “Competence is far more attractive than being a damsel in distress.”

My foot starts tapping in annoyance. “Noted.”

“What’s your name, trouble?” he asks.

“Lee.”

Orien studies me for a beat. “Is that so?”

I plant my hands on my hips. “Got a problem with that?”

“You don’t look like a Lee.”

My foot taps faster. “This is when the other person introduces themselves.”

“Not the time.” He bites his bottom lip as he takes me in again. “But come again, and we’ll see. I’m here most Thursdays.”

My nostrils flare with irritation. “I didn’t ask.”

“No, but you wanted to know.” He reaches out to flick the jewel dangling from my nape guard. “See you around, trouble.”

The brief contact sends a jolt through me as he turns and walks away, weaving between patrons with the same unhurried confidence he arrived with.

My eyes follow him until he disappears, my pulse racing. I resist the urge to chase after him and discover how much trouble I can get into in one night.

Instead, I return to the bar to finish my drink. The whiskey burns as it goes down, cutting through the lingering tension in my body.

When I signal for my tab, the bartender shakes his head. “It’s on the house.”

I search the lounge until I spot Orien, back at his spot near the stage. He lifts his chin in acknowledgment, but not invitation, so I leave a tip and head for the exit.

The night air hits me the moment I step outside, cool and biting after the warmth inside the lounge. The music fades behind me, replaced by the sounds of traffic, the wail of a siren blocks away, and laughter from down the street.

As I strike off toward the sidewalk, my phone vibrates in my pocket.

I answer without a greeting. “I just left.”

“Did you make contact?” my brother asks.

“Yes.” My attention drifts back to the light bleeding through the lounge door as a laughing couple exits. “I have his attention.”

“Good.”

The simple affirmation lands harder than it should.

In the eight years since I took my place in the family business, I learned how to interpret the silences and subtleties in my brother’s responses. This one speaks of progress acknowledged, patience rewarded, trust reinforced.

“Continue as planned,” he says.

The line goes dead.

I pocket the phone and bury every trace of emotion. The mission is progressing. Contact was made.

But as my fingers brush the jewel at my throat, the memory of Orien’ pale, assessing eyes returns.

The file described him as an emotionless tool. It failed to mention the way he studies you, stripping you apart layer by layer in search of what makes you tick.

Shivering, I pull my cardigan tighter and head for my apartment.

For now, I check the street behind me, ensuring no one from the Blue Note can connect “Lee” to the Vartanian family.