Six – Joaquin
Six
Joaquin
T he urge to touch my bond mark on Alijah’s skin was like an addiction. One good scratch, and I’d be fine. Just one more touch for the road. And another to survive the last leg of our move.
“Stop it.” Alijah gave my hand a light swat, his eyes never leaving the expressway. “It’s healed. No need to keep fussing over it.”
“Maybe I like the fuss.”
“Yeah, but not while I’m driving. And don’t think I’ve forgiven you for flashing Morgan like that yesterday.”
Forgiveness was the last thing I wanted from Morgan Van Daal.
She’d been a frequent highlight of Alijah’s workday for weeks. I had chalked it up to the excitement of collaborating with a former Olympic champion. Alijah was the type of kid who mooned over pretty gold medalists on cereal boxes. The shine would fade, and he’d find a new show or podcast to obsess over.
Or so I thought—until that night at the ballet.
Lighting was vital to a successful production, but it was hard to show off, especially to someone like Alijah, who gets swept away by the performances and music. Giselle left him so emotionally bereft that it took him two days of processing before he remembered to compliment my work.
The lighting design for A Midsummer Night’s Dream was rather good if I do say so myself—a surreal mix of muted pastels and swathes of moonlight, giving the stage an ethereal quality. Queen Titania’s entrance, with her twelve-foot-long cape of lavender tulle and three spotlights, was supposed to have an impact.
It wasn’t supposed to take my mate’s breath away.
Something about Titania, whether the column of her throat or the regal tilt of her head as everyone bowed to her, made Alijah sit up straighter in his seat. Ballet dancers are aesthetically pleasing, after all, but this was different. Desire blossomed on his end of the bond—and he immediately shut it down.
On the drive home, he tried to brush it off. The resemblance between the dancer playing Titania and Morgan caught him off guard. That was all. Even in the low light of my truck, I could tell his cheeks were flushed…and he was lying by omission.
So, I started paying more attention to our bond throughout the workday. Sure enough, he was shielding his emotions more often. Granted, he had plenty of legitimate reasons—stressing over deadlines and underperforming videos, with his anxiety disorder always lurking in the background—but it still stung. Why couldn’t he be honest with me?
Especially when his pattern of behavior was so obvious. Whenever he shut me out, guess whose name popped up over dinner or as an anecdote while getting ready for bed? The good doctor. Far too often for a regular colleague.
He liked Morgan, the woman, the omega. When did his interest begin, and why did he keep it hidden?
Yesterday’s encounter was an accident. I was killing time, eyeing all the fancy displays and trophy cases in the lobby, waiting for Alijah to finish work. My only goal was to take my mate to lunch before the hell of moving sucked us in. I never intended to put her on my radar.
Her hair color caught my eye first, somewhere between burgundy and purple, unnatural yet bold, but she had more than enough confidence to pull it off. I recognized her demeanor rather than her face—because she had the same aura of distant superiority that Piper channeled every time she stepped onstage as Titania. But Piper had nothing on the real deal.
Morgan’s build was on the fuller side of athletic, not quite fit enough to pass for a professional omega athlete but pretty damn close, with impeccable posture and a thickness through her hips and thighs that in no way diminished her strength. She had a unique, sculptural type of beauty, with an angular nose that sloped down to a distinct point and pouty bow-shaped lips.
Pure temptation, even in a Narwhals t-shirt and scrub pants. No wonder Alijah was smitten. I was, too.
But she was too composed, her cat-like amber eyes too guarded. Flashing Alijah’s bond mark was partly to get a rise out of him, to drive home the fact that his crush wasn’t a secret anymore. I also wanted to see Morgan’s reaction. Not that she took the bait. Her neutral expression felt like a challenge.
And I loved a good challenge.
Alijah cursed a pushy driver under his breath, drawing my attention back to the road as we pulled off the bridge into the waterfront Belcrest Historic District.
Despite it being more than a century since Northport’s industrial heyday, old textile mills dominated the southern riverfront. The largest of the remaining mill complexes, the Belcrest Brothers Cotton Manufactory, was now a museum and convention center.
The Belcrest family was still a prominent local presence, not to mention richer than sin—thanks to thoroughly exploiting mill workers back in the day—and they loved forking over money for naming privileges. See the eponymous Belcrest Ballet or the new ultramodern Belcrest Football Operations Center.
Yes, Alijah and I both worked in facilities bearing the Belcrest name. At least we weren’t moving to the Belcrest Mill condominium complex. That would have been overkill.
Once we passed the historic district, Alijah turned onto a less affluent street. The lingering grit spoke to me.
“The commute should be easier for you,” Alijah said as we waited at a stoplight. “It’s a straight shot to the ballet. I wonder what it’s like during rush hour.”
“It’ll be fine, babe. Your commute is the one I’m happy about.”
“The drive to campus is a breeze from here, but…” He knocked his palm against the steering wheel a few times, dark gaze unfocused.
I knew what he was thinking. There was no way to avoid questioning our pack leader’s sanity. I placed a hand on Alijah’s thigh and sent reassurance through our bond.
“Owen has no one to blame but himself if he winds up spending all his free time in the car.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Alijah merged onto a waterfront road several miles downriver from the Belcrest mill complex. The area was a tad too gentrified for my taste, with packs eating brunch at sidewalk cafés and parents jogging with strollers along the Wittara River, one of the tributaries leading to Tolliver Bay.
“Do you think he’ll make it this afternoon?”
“Doubt it,” I said, propping an elbow against the door .
Owen had meetings. He always had meetings. It didn’t matter what he said at dinner last night when he handed over our keys. He was going to flake in the name of duty.
Redwing BioTech may not be the love of his life, but that didn’t stop it from being a cruel mistress.
It was why he’d put off formalizing the pack for years. He needed to finish one more project or get one more raise. Constant brake pumping. Telling me to be patient, that it would happen soon, and that we’d become a pack, just like we planned, all the way back during our first year in college.
Tabitha Redmond, his aunt—a veritable mad scientist and the company’s founder—didn’t do nepotism. Owen worked tirelessly, finally earning a promotion to a vice president position last fall. He never failed to deliver, no matter the cost, especially to his personal life.
His lifestyle was spartan, insisting we rent a one-bedroom with an office nook because it was cheaper, perfectly content to bunk down in a windowless space without a closet. What more could you possibly need when your worldly possessions totaled a few suits and some overpowered computer equipment?
He did upgrade his car back in March, freeing his knees from the rundown death trap he’d had for years. Of course, he opted for a used hybrid SUV with the best gas mileage he could afford.
Owen was always so sensible when he wasn’t being a pain in the ass.
While I was happy for him, the timing was far from ideal because Alijah and I were getting serious. Bonding serious. Something Owen knew full well. Figured that was it. He’d push off filing the pack formation paperwork for another year or two because of the expense of a new vehicle.
So, I spent more time at Alijah’s place. Days would pass without sleeping in my bed. Didn’t see Owen for weeks.
I came home one random afternoon to grab my good shoes and nice belt for a ballet fundraiser, only to find a completed pack registration form on the kitchen counter—a form with Alijah included as our third member—and a mortgage pre-approval letter for an eye-watering amount of money. The attached budget breakdown and proposed downpayment were even more of a shock. Owen had saved more money than I’d earned in my adult life, all for our future. For our pack.
Talk about killer emotional whiplash.
Formal pack registration had a ton of requirements, including cohabitation, so Alijah ended his lease and crammed into our apartment. Three grown men sharing eight hundred square feet was not my favorite experience, but it was a necessary, temporary evil.
After vetoing a long string of properties, including a ton of overpriced townhouses near the Redwing campus and my preferred mid-century time capsule on the other side of town, Owen made an offer for the last place we’d expected.
“Remember how I thought he’d given us the wrong address the day of our showing?” Alijah eased off the accelerator to admire the soaring brick edifices before us. “Still feel like that.”
Tolliver Yards looked exactly like the listing photos. A pair of renovated mill buildings held court at the river's bend, connected by a multi-story walkway clad in aged copper. Sleek black windows and doors contrasted nicely against the warm brick, all framed by boxwood hedges and concrete planters.
Pristine was the word that came to mind.
A narrow road ran between the two mill buildings, revealing that Tolliver Yards was basically a mini business district, with restored industrial buildings stretching for several blocks in matching brick and black metal. A farmer’s market ran the perimeter of a community green space, selling autumnal baked goods, pumpkins, and chrysanthemums.
Owen hadn’t given us details about the parking situation, so we opted for a spot outside an art gallery a short walk from our new building.
“Can we get coffee?” Alijah asked, already pulling me inside a nearby café. I savored the delighted trills along our bond as he took in the vintage decor and Edison bulb light fixtures.
Baked goods filled the display cases to the brim. A tray of sea salt double-fudge brownies made his citrus scent deepen into orange marmalade territory. Goat cheese and avocado toast had the opposite effect, making it too tart. The only thing he hated more than goat cheese was coconut.
After much discussion with the barista, Alijah settled on a BLT and egg sandwich for himself, a breakfast burrito for me, and six desserts for us to sample later. I carried the bag and followed him back outside, coffee in hand, listening as he gushed about the novelty of living so close to an upscale caffeine source.
The front entrance of our new home was set in a massive brick archway. It opened onto a secure vestibule with luxurious finishes—tons of marble, chrome, and security cameras. Alijah happily greeted the tidy beta woman behind the concierge desk, introducing our pack as new residents.
She welcomed us and slid a move-in tipsheet across the marble desktop. I took the paper and urged my mate to move along. He could make friends later.
Our new security fobs opened a sliding door in a frosted glass wall, revealing the residential lobby. It was bigger than the vestibule but not as fancy, with brick columns and a shining concrete floor. The focal point was a giant vertical water feature on the far wall, surrounded by tons of boxy seating and a suspiciously large rubber plant in the corner.
Several residents followed signs pointing to the fitness center and swimming pool while what seemed to be a beta-only pack headed outside toward the river view deck. On the way to the elevator, we passed a long glass and steel display case with historical relics from the mill’s glory days.
While we waited for the elevator, Alijah shot worried glances at the security office, where a massive alpha in uniform sat behind the service window. My mate was still adjusting to the idea of residing in a secure building.
“Can we really just go up?” he asked in a stage whisper.
“That’s how it works when you live somewhere, babe.”
He wrinkled his nose at me and took a sip of his latte.
The elevator required another swipe of my fob to unlock the control panel. I hit the button for the sixth floor and leaned against Alijah, holding up the moving reminders for him to read during the ride.
“I’ll get the temporary access passes for the movers after we eat,” Alijah said. Our movers would arrive in an hour if they didn’t hit game-day traffic around campus.
The industrial-style elevator opened onto a hallway with exposed wooden beams and a huge skylight. Our new pad was one of two penthouse units on the top floor. Alijah made a beeline for the door on the right, eager to use his key for the first time.
Cleaners came earlier in the week, bombing the place with pheromone neutralizers that left a chemical sting in the air, even with the top-of-the-line filtration system. A freestanding brick fireplace divided the central living area. A grand piano sat abandoned to one side, a chaise lounge wide enough to hold three alphas on the other.
We headed to the kitchen and set our things down on the island. It was stainless steel with a front panel made of dark gray granite. The same granite covered the rest of the countertops. Ridiculous.
Alijah surveyed the empty fridge. “Everything looks brand new. Did the previous owner never cook?”
After paying the equivalent of a king’s ransom in downpayment, maybe they couldn’t afford to eat. At least we still had a decent amount of cash in our joint pack bank account. Nowhere near enough to buy appliances of this caliber, but the real estate gods had been kind, and the kitchen was only missing a microwave—a nice, middle-of-the-road, moderately priced microwave.
“Your moms need to see this place.” Alijah pulled out his phone and began filming. “Hello, my lovelies! Let me show you around. We’re in the kitchen right now, and yes, you counted correctly—the stove has six burners. Can’t wait to cook something delicious for you and the girls. And there’s Joaquin. Say hi, Joaquin!”
He moved on before I managed to wave at the camera.
“Now, let’s look at the pantry. I’ve never lived somewhere with a pantry before!”
A text from Owen arrived. It was a screenshot of flight details and a request for me to pick up Wyatt next week because Owen had yet another budget meeting about his pet project, PheroPass.
Thanks to the new money-grubbing chief finance officer, it was more like an abused pet at this point.
Wyatt was Owen’s younger brother—never little brother. And never, ever, baby brother. At least not if you wanted to avoid getting decked. The boy was jacked. But he’d never be as tall as Owen, not even close, and he hated it.
His stay was supposed to be temporary, but Owen had other ideas. I wasn’t getting my hopes up. He’d been brushing us off for years. Too busy with gymnastics training, too young to commit. There was a girl he wanted to ask out. Maybe after the Olympics. Endless bullshit.
Commitment-phobia was my least favorite Redmond family quirk.
Not that it mattered anymore. I didn’t care if our pack stayed at three or grew to thirteen. Our paperwork had been approved, and Alijah had the security he deserved, a bonded mate and an official pack. That’s what was important.
Alijah’s voice echoed through the cavernous space as he showed off the soaring ceilings and custom curtains we’d inherited. As sweet as the video was, and as much as my two mothers would appreciate the tour, it was unnecessary.
The place was too big and too lavish, full stop.
What were we supposed to do with a full-on, fancy-ass omega suite? No sane omega, especially not a classy lady like Morgan Van Daal, would want a fledgling pack of loft-poor workaholics in their mid-thirties.
No, wait—early thirties. Adding Wyatt to the mix lowered our average age to thirty-two and a half.
My, what a selling point.
One thing at a time. Finish the move, then set small, achievable goals. Find the box of kitchen gadgets and unpack the coffee machine. Determine the best corner for my at-home design station. Make sure Alijah had everything he needed for work on Monday.
Then we could resume our regularly scheduled arguments about who ate the leftovers Owen was saving for lunch or who’d left their laundry in the dryer for four days.
Spoiler alert—it was me. It was always me.
At least we wouldn’t have to fight over who gets the shower first anymore. Maybe we could even pick out a couch. A real one, made of authentic wood from actual trees that you don’t have to build with an Allen wrench.
The non-omega bedrooms downstairs did nothing for me. One was a sprawling primary suite for a head alpha or communal pack use. It would go to Owen. I would insist on that.
The other was a smaller room tucked behind the kitchen that seemed better suited for guests. It might not be a bad home office or a gym for Wyatt— if he stayed.
Upstairs, a secondary living area surrounded by glass walls offered an even better view of the city skyline. A walkway led to a pair of bedroom suites on the opposite side of the unit. Wyatt got to take his pick.
We’d chosen the long studio-like space behind the upstairs living area, with multiple north-facing skylights and an almost utilitarian bathroom surrounded by a wall of glass bricks. The random specks of colorful paint on the floorboards only added to its appeal—for me, at least. Alijah was a tidy soul, through and through, and was doing his best to redefine my style as distressed or vintage rather than grubby cheapskate.
Alijah joined me in the studio, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind, and kissed my shoulder. “So, do you approve of loft living yet?”
“It’s a bit late for my opinion,” I said with a gruff laugh, tracing my thumb along his wrist. “You like it. That’s what counts.”
“The alpha doth protest too much.” He gave my ear a playful nip.
I reached around to pinch his ass. “Did the bond give me away?”
“No.” He squirmed away from my hand, pressing his chest even tighter against my back. “You’ve been in here for at least ten minutes. If you stop stalking around like a tomcat, it means something has snagged your interest. I speak from experience.”
“Oh, is that right?” I watched my mate out of the corner of my eye and teased him with a slow smirk.
“Yes. I’m an authority on your prowling behavior.”
Careful not to break his hold on me, I turned in his arms and placed a hand on his lower back. The other cradled Alijah’s head as I savored his plush lips with long, lazy kisses. The orange zest of his scent turned sweet as my tongue stroked his. It only made me crave him even more. My hand slid down to cup his backside.
“Wanna try out our new shower?”
Alijah laughed between a few more indulgent kisses. “Having shower sex in an empty apartment without towels or fresh clothes is a terrible idea. What if the movers showed up in the middle of things?”
Terrible ideas were my specialty—a fact Alijah seemed to have temporarily forgotten.
Oh well. There was plenty of time to remind him later. In the shower. Or maybe on top of that ridiculous excuse of a kitchen island.