14. Jack
Jack
When we got in last night, Clara had already been asleep. It was only ten, but I’d checked the hours of the café she said she works at and they open at six. She probably has to be there by five for early morning shifts, and who knows when she wakes up to get ready.
That’s why I’m in the kitchen at four-thirty in the morning, and breakfast is just about done when I hear her come down the stairs at five.
My bedroom is right below hers, and I’d heard her tossing and turning all night.
Is that her natural sleep state? Stress from the situation?
Or is her omega still on edge after Victor’s constant rejections?
I don’t know.
But I do know she needs to understand she’s not alone in this house. She has someone to lean on.
Her eyes go wide when she steps into the kitchen. I’ve kept the lights low, autumn-scented candles flickering against the counters, and soft jazz humming from a little speaker in the corner. The air is warm with the scent of cinnamon and butter, roasted pumpkin, and maple syrup.
I’d noticed the candles in her room the first night we walked in on her—the way she carved out little nests of light and comfort. The teacups tucked away in the cupboard, mismatched and delicate. So I brewed loose-leaf tea and poured it into one of them, hoping she’d notice.
She hesitates, then slips onto a stool at the island. Her cardigan brushes the counter as she folds her hands in her lap.
“What is this for?” she asks.
“You,” I say simply, sliding the plate toward her—a golden stack of pumpkin pancakes, dotted with melting chocolate chips, and thick-cut bacon crisped at the edges. A drizzle of maple pools on the plate, steam curling in the air between us.
Her lashes lower, but I don’t miss the small smile that tugs at her mouth. She picks up her fork, her shoulders softening.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
We eat in companionable silence, the only sounds the clink of cutlery and the occasional crackle of the candles. I watch her take that first bite, see the way her lips part on a small, pleased hum, and it’s worth everything.
I want her to have this every morning. A chance to be wrapped in autumn light, before the world claws its way back in.
“Can I ask you something?” she asks.
I nod. She can ask me anything.
“Why did you guys move here?”
I smile and lean forward on my elbows against the counter, lowering myself to eye level with her.
“Well, honestly… we’ve never really stayed in one place very long. Dagan and Victor run a social media empire of sorts—different topic every month. Bram writes horror, and he can do that from anywhere. And I work in computers.”
“In computers?” she repeats.
"Ethical hacking," I say, watching her reaction.
Her eyebrow arches, and her lips twitch in amusement. The expression squeezes my heart.
“ How exactly does one ethically hack?” she asks, propping her chin on her little fist.
“I’m hired by the company I’m trying to hack,” I explain, “to see if their online security holds up. Mostly banks and financial systems, but I’ve worked for retailers, governments, even a few celebrities.”
Now both eyebrows shoot up.
“That sounds like an expensive service.”
I nod, even though she wasn’t really asking. “It definitely pays the bills.”
“And I’ve seen Bram’s name on the New York Times list,” she says. “So my question is… why did you choose a very reasonably priced rental in a small town like Lakeside Point? You said you could live anywhere. So why here?”
She has a good point.
“Actually, that’s kind of a weird story. We got a flyer. Kind of an invitation to apply in the mail. It was oddly specific—mentioned the haunted vibe of the house for Bram, and the shipwreck off the coast for Victor and Dagan to use in their social media series.”
She perks up at that.
“It was tailored for us. But I wouldn’t say it was cheap—it’s comparable to the rest of the area.”
Her brow furrows. “I got the same flyer. But mine said the house was fully furnished and that the first year’s rent was deeply discounted. Two things I was definitely looking for.”
I pause, frowning. “Maybe they sent out tailored flyers across the country?” We were living in Tennessee before this. That sounds far-fetched even as I say it.
She gives me a deadpan look. The kind that says, Really?
I chuckle and reach out to rub my thumb over the crease between her brows, smoothing the worry away. Her expression shifts into something heated and soft. I let my thumb drift over the ridge of her nose, grazing her plump bottom lip and tugging it gently.
Clara leans into my touch.
A low purr rumbles in my chest.
I replace my thumb with my lips, brushing a kiss over hers.
Her quiet moan sends a sharp electric jolt through my body, my cock hardening instantly.
Her fingers twist in the front of my shirt, pulling me closer.
My hands slide down her sides, then under her skirt, between her thighs and the seat of the stool.
She opens for me.
And I step between her legs, pushing her soft, flowy skirt higher.
We come up for air panting.
“You have to get to work,” I remind her gently.
Clara shakes her head in refusal, eyes still hazy.
I chuckle. “I promise I’ll be here when you get back. Can I give you a ride?”
“No, it’s okay. I’m taking my car. I need to stop at the store after.”
One last kiss. Soft. Sweet.
And then she’s gone, leaving me in the kitchen, already missing the weight of her in my arms.