24. Unexpected Gifts
24
UNEXPECTED GIFTS
~JESSICA~
M arcus' pristine Aston Martin sits at the far end of the garage, its sleek silver body gleaming under the carefully designed lighting system.
The car is a work of automotive art—curved lines flowing like liquid metal, the handcrafted leather interior just visible through tinted windows. It's elegant and understated in a way that perfectly captures the Alpha himself—expensive but not ostentatious, powerful without needing to announce it, commanding attention through sheer presence rather than flash.
I follow him across the polished concrete floor, still feeling strangely hollowed out after my unexpected emotional breakdown.
My face feels tight from dried tears, the skin around my eyes tender and probably still visibly puffy despite my attempts to erase the evidence with his monogrammed handkerchief. The soft cotton square is tucked in my pocket now, a tangible reminder of vulnerability I never intended to show.
God, even his handkerchief has a monogram. Who does that in the twenty-first century?
The thought almost makes me smile again, a welcome distraction from the rawness I feel.
I can't remember the last time I cried like that—certainly not in front of anyone else, not since before the alley. Seven years of carefully contained emotion, of walls built brick by emotional brick, collapsed in the span of minutes in this man's arms.
The fact that it was Marcus who witnessed it, who held me through it without judgment or expectation, creates a strange new dynamic between us that I'm not entirely sure how to navigate.
Our footsteps echo in the cavernous space as we walk, the silence between us not uncomfortable but charged with unspoken awareness.
My borrowed uniform skirt swishes against my thighs with each step, the unfamiliar sensation a constant reminder of how much has changed in just a few days. From my toxic apartment in Dead Knot to this lake house sanctuary, from isolation to the sudden constant presence of four very different Alphas, from vengeance as my only purpose to... whatever this is becoming.
We're halfway to his car when something catches my eye—a gleam of metal in my peripheral vision, a flash of color where there should be only shadow.
Two motorcycles parked side by side, half-hidden in the shadows of an alcove I hadn't noticed before.
One is unmistakably Marcus'—larger, more powerful, with classic lines that speak of traditional engineering updated with modern technology. The deep charcoal body with subtle silver accents reflects his personality perfectly—understated but unmistakably high-end, built for both speed and endurance.
But it's the other bike that stops me in my tracks, that makes me freeze mid-step as if I've walked into an invisible wall.
Sleek and predatory, with curves that somehow manage to be both vintage and futuristic simultaneously.
The matte black body is accented with hand-painted flames that transition from deep crimson at the base through vibrant orange to liquid gold at the tips. Each flame licks up the body of the motorcycle as if the machine is barely containing hellfire within its mechanical heart. LED light rims pulse with a subtle glow that traces the wheels' circumference, shifting between the same three colors in a hypnotic pattern that makes the bike appear alive even while stationary.
My breath catches in my throat, heart suddenly hammering against my ribs as if trying to escape my chest.
"That's..."
I step closer, afraid to touch it, afraid it might disappear if I reach out. My fingers hover just above the seat, trembling slightly with unexpected emotion.
"That's a custom Ducati Streetfighter V4 with modified KTM Duke performance upgrades."
The words come automatically, information stored from hundreds of hours poring over motorcycle magazines during my recovery, dreaming of freedom and speed while my body painfully knit itself back together.
This specific model, with these exact customizations, had been my fantasy—a dream I tucked away alongside thoughts of a normal life, of safety, of belonging. Impossible things for someone like me.
I turn to Marcus, confusion written across my face, questions crowding my throat.
"How did you..."
His expression is unreadable as always, features schooled into that perfect mask of control that seems as natural to him as breathing. But something softens around his eyes—a barely perceptible change that most wouldn't notice but that catches my attention like a shout.
"You had a magazine with this model circled in your hospital room," he says simply, as if commenting on the weather rather than revealing intimate knowledge of one of my most private moments. "When you were recovering years ago."
The casual revelation that he'd paid such close attention to a seemingly insignificant detail seven years ago sends a strange warmth spreading through my chest. It's not just that he noticed—it's that he remembered.
That this small desire of mine was cataloged and preserved in his memory for seven years until this precise moment.
"You visited me in the hospital?" I ask, trying to remember.
Those days are mostly a blur of pain and medication, of learning to exist in a body that felt irreparably damaged. The thought that Marcus might have been there, watching over me when I was at my most vulnerable, creates a complicated knot of emotions I'm not equipped to untangle.
Marcus shakes his head slightly, silver hair catching the light.
"No. I observed from a distance. I decided against direct contact."
There's something in his tone— a hint of regret, perhaps, or simply acknowledgment of a decision long past questioning.
His expression remains neutral, but his eyes hold mine with unexpected intensity, as if willing me to understand something he's not explicitly stating.
"Why?" The question emerges before I can stop it, genuine curiosity overriding my usual caution.
Most Alphas can't resist claiming credit for their good deeds, can't help inserting themselves into narratives where they appear heroic or benevolent. But Marcus has kept his distance for seven years, pulling strings from the shadows without demanding recognition or gratitude.
He considers me for a long moment, those silver-gray eyes seeming to see past all my carefully constructed defenses.
The weight of his gaze should make me uncomfortable— I've spent years avoiding this kind of scrutiny —but somehow it doesn't. Instead, I find myself holding still, allowing the assessment, almost wanting to know what he sees when he looks at me like this.
"Because you deserved better than half-measures," he says finally, voice carrying that slight Eastern European accent that becomes more pronounced when he's being particularly honest. The words are measured, chosen with care. "I didn't want to give you false hope of having someone— or a set of Alphas —enter your life only to not be fully committed. Not after what you had experienced."
The simple explanation, delivered without dramatics or self-congratulation, strikes me somewhere beneath my ribs.
It's such a stark contrast to how most Alphas operate—swooping in to claim credit, to establish ownership, to create obligation. There's a respect in his restraint that I hadn't anticipated, a consideration for my autonomy that feels almost foreign after years of navigating a world where Omegas are treated as prizes to be claimed rather than people with their own agency.
"So you watched from a distance," I say softly, piecing together the scope of his involvement in my life. "For seven years."
A barely perceptible nod confirms my understanding.
"Intervention only when absolutely necessary. Resources provided without conditions. Space to make your own choices, even when those choices were... concerning."
That last word carries a wealth of meaning—I can only imagine what my more violent activities in Dead Knot looked like from his perspective. The thought that he knew, that he could have stopped me but chose to respect my path even when it diverged from his preferences, adds another layer to the complex picture of this man I'm still trying to understand.
"There's something else you should know," he continues, moving closer to the bike and running his fingers along the handlebars with unexpected gentleness. "Bastian wasn't a stranger to you before all this."
I frown, trying to process this unexpected information.
My mind races through the interactions I've had with the mountain of an Alpha, searching for hints of familiarity, for signs that he knew me beyond what the others had been told.
"What do you mean?"
"He was your bodyguard when you were younger. For your family and the empire itself." Marcus' eyes meet mine, gauging my reaction as he delivers this revelation. "He was forced to leave a few years before your 'unexpected' death."
The revelation hits me like a physical blow, momentarily stealing my breath. Fragments of memory surface—a mountain of a man always at the periphery of my childhood activities, a deep voice warning me away from dangerous situations, large hands lifting me after a particularly bad fall during ballet practice.
This couldn't be a coincidence. It most certainly wasn’t my mind fabricating connections where none exist.
"Mr. Bear," I whisper, the childhood nickname emerging from some long-buried corner of my mind.
The memory solidifies— a younger Bastian, face unmarred by the scars he now carries, pretending to be annoyed as I followed him around my father's estate, peppering him with questions, demanding piggyback rides despite his supposed professional demeanor.
A slight smile touches Marcus' lips, the expression transforming his usually severe features into something unexpectedly approachable.
"You never called him that to his face, I assume."
"I absolutely did," I counter, a matching smile forming despite my confusion.
The memory is crystal clear now—Bastian's stoic expression cracking slightly every time I used the nickname, his gruff voice trying and failing to sound stern as he asked me to address him properly.
"He pretended to hate it, but he never actually told me to stop."
The realization that I've been connected to these men even longer than I knew sends my world tilting on its axis yet again. How many more revelations await? How much more of my past and present is tangled up with these four Alphas in ways I'm only beginning to discover?
I turn back to the motorcycle, trying to process this new information while running my fingers along the sleek body of the machine.
The paint job is even more intricate up close—the flames aren't just painted on but have subtle texture, the gold accents catching light from multiple angles to create a three-dimensional effect.
"So the color scheme..." I trail off, making the connection.
"He remembered it was your favorite combination. The hair confirmed it." Marcus gestures toward my head with a slight nod, referring to my deliberately flame-colored ombre. "Knox added the electric components and LED features. It can run on electricity for cruising or fuel when you want to, as he put it, 'drive like a psychotic maniac like his sister.'"
The thought of three different Alphas each contributing elements to this perfect motorcycle— each paying attention to my preferences, my history, my desires —creates a warmth in my chest that spreads outward, unfamiliar but not unwelcome.
It's been so long since anyone gave me a gift, longer still since anyone gave me something chosen with such specific attention to what might bring me joy rather than just utility.
A startled laugh escapes me, genuine and unguarded in a way that feels strange on my lips after years of calculated responses.
"Is his sister truly that chaotic?"
Marcus pinches the bridge of his nose, looking suddenly weary in a way that speaks of personal experience rather than secondhand accounts.
"A complete mess."
His expression is so pained, so genuinely aggrieved, that I can't help but feel intrigued by this unknown woman who can apparently reduce the controlled, calculating Marcus Harrington to exasperation with her mere existence.
I can't help the grin that spreads across my face, wide and uninhibited.
"Just my type of friendship. Makes me excited to meet her."
The relationship between me and the four Alphas is still undefined, still evolving in ways I can't fully predict or control.
But the thought of extending my social circle beyond them, of potentially forming connections with others in their orbit, creates an unexpected flutter of anticipation in my stomach.
I've been alone for so long that the idea of friendship— real friendship, not just strategic alliances —feels almost decadent.
"She's not allowed at the lake house," Marcus says firmly, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. "I don't want her anywhere near it."
I lift an eyebrow, amused by his vehemence.
"That's not nice to assume she'd cause problems."
"I'm not assuming." His expression is deadly serious, the set of his jaw suggesting memories of past disasters. "She burned down the last house, and I actually like this one, so fuck that."
The profanity delivered in his cultured accent, the absolute conviction in his statement, the mental image of some female version of Knox gleefully setting fire to expensive real estate—it all collides in my mind and sends me into unexpectedly genuine laughter.
The sound echoes in the garage, unfamiliar even to my own ears after so many years of careful restraint.
"You know," I say once I've caught my breath, "you looked the scariest when we first met, but you seem rather calm in comparison to the others."
Something shifts in his demeanor—subtle but immediate, like a switch being flipped.
The change is apparent in his eyes first, the silver-gray darkening to the color of storm clouds, pupils dilating slightly. His posture straightens, shoulders squaring, the full force of his Alpha presence suddenly focused like a laser beam.
He moves toward me with deliberate steps, each one eating up the distance between us, measured and purposeful. There's nothing rushed or aggressive in his approach, but something in it sends my heartbeat accelerating, a primal recognition of predator approaching prey—not with violence, but with unmistakable intent.
He stops when he's standing close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.
I'm not short—y ears of ballet and combat training have given me a strong, lean frame that stands taller than most Omegas —but Marcus towers over me, his broad shoulders temporarily blocking the overhead lights and casting me in his shadow.
His hand comes up to cup my chin, fingers warm and dry against my skin. The grip is firm but not painful, angling my face toward his with a confidence that suggests he's never questioned his right to touch me this way.
Under normal circumstances, such a presumption would trigger immediate resistance, perhaps even violence. But there's something in his eyes— something beyond dominance or desire —that keeps me still, curious rather than defensive.
He leans down until our lips are mere millimeters apart, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath when he speaks, can smell the complex notes of his scent—sandalwood and cedar, old books and expensive whiskey, the metallic tang of power carefully controlled.
"I only show this side for two reasons," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a register that sends electric shivers racing down my spine, goosebumps rising on my arms despite the garage's regulated temperature.
He pauses, deliberately inhaling as if he can't get enough of my scent. His nostrils flare slightly, eyes darkening further as he catalogues the chemical composition of my response—the subtle shift in pheromones that betrays my body's interest even as my mind remains cautious.
His lips brush against mine— not quite a kiss, more a promise of one —before he whispers, "My pack..."
Another deliberate pause, another feather-light brush of lips that makes my heart rate spike embarrassingly. His hand slides from my chin to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair with careful possessiveness.
The touch is electric, sending currents of awareness racing through nerve endings I hadn't realized were so sensitized to his specific contact.
"And my Omega."
The possessive pronoun hangs in the air between us, weighted with potential. Not a claim, not yet, but an invitation. A possibility. His eyes hold mine, intense and unblinking, daring me to look away, to break the connection he's establishing between us.
"Just depends what you want to be," he adds, voice still pitched low enough that I feel the words as much as hear them.
Then he's gone, pulling away before I can process what just happened, before I can decide whether to lean into the almost-kiss or reject it.
The sudden absence of his warmth, his scent, his overwhelming presence leaves me flushed and flustered, off-balance in a way I haven't been since Rook first pushed me against the wall of that abandoned building in Dead Knot, all growls and teeth and barely restrained desire.
Marcus moves toward his own motorcycle with casual grace, as if he didn't just turn my world sideways with a few well-chosen words and the ghost of a kiss.
He picks up his helmet—matte black with silver accents that match his hair—and looks back at me with an expression I can't quite read.
"Try to keep up," he says, voice returning to its usual controlled tone, though I detect an undercurrent of something warmer, more playful than his typical demeanor.
I blink, still off-balance from the sudden intensity of our interaction.
My lips tingle where his brushed against them, my body humming with awareness I can't seem to shut down.
"Wait—we're racing to school?" The question comes out slightly breathless, betraying my lingering reaction to his proximity.
"Only if you're not going to ride like a fucking turtle," he replies, a hint of challenge creeping into his voice.
The casual profanity in his cultured accent still catches me off guard, the contrast between his polished exterior and these glimpses of something rawer beneath creating an intriguing puzzle I find myself increasingly eager to solve.
The taunt snaps me out of my daze, indignation replacing confusion. The familiar territory of competition, of challenge and response, grounds me where seduction left me adrift.
"Old geezers can't keep up," I shoot back, moving toward the bike that is apparently— impossibly —mine.
The insult is childish, lacking my usual verbal finesse, but the flash of amusement in his eyes tells me it hit its mark nonetheless.
A dark chuckle rumbles from his chest, the sound raising goosebumps along my arms again.
"Fine. If you make it there first, you can get whatever you want."
The offer hangs in the air, open-ended and dangerous in its potential.
Whatever I want... from Marcus Harrington, the Alpha of Alphas, the man who's been orchestrating significant portions of my life from the shadows for seven years.
The possibilities are dizzying in their scope.
"A tattoo," I say immediately, the words emerging before I've fully considered them. I point to the center of my chest, just below my collarbone where the skin is thin and sensitive. "Right here."
It's a deliberately provocative choice—both the location and the permanent nature of a tattoo representing a claim on his body that matches the one he seems increasingly interested in making on mine.
A small rebellion, a test of his willingness to cede control in ways most Alphas would refuse.
He arches one silver eyebrow, expression caught between amusement and exasperation. There's a moment when I think he might rescind the offer, might set boundaries on what "whatever you want" actually encompasses.
But he simply inclines his head in that formal way of his, accepting the stakes without comment.
I take the opportunity to examine the bike more closely, running my hands over the controls, familiarizing myself with its layout.
It's even more beautiful up close, clearly customized with attention to every detail. The handlebars are positioned for comfort over long distances without sacrificing control in tight maneuvers. The seat is contoured perfectly, as if molded specifically for my body.
Even the foot pegs are placed at precisely the right height for someone of my build.
This wasn't purchased off a showroom floor.
This was built, piece by piece, with me in mind. The realization sends another wave of warmth through me, complicated emotions I don't have time to fully examine.
I swing my leg over the seat, settling into the position as if I was born to it.
The bike fits me perfectly, my feet reaching the ground with just enough clearance to be stable at stops without sacrificing the height needed for optimal balance when in motion.
The key is already in the ignition, a small flame charm dangling from the ring—another thoughtful detail that makes my throat tighten unexpectedly.
When I turn it, the engine roars to life beneath me, the sound echoing through the garage with enough force to make me squeal in delight.
The vibration travels up through my body, a physical manifestation of the power now quite literally between my thighs. It's exhilarating in a way I hadn't anticipated, freedom and potential condensed into mechanical form.
Marcus is already on his bike, helmet in place, visor raised to reveal eyes that spark with something dangerous and enticing.
The black leather of his riding jacket stretches across shoulders broad enough to block out the sun, the material worn in places that speak of years of use rather than fashion choice.
"What if I lose?" I ask, suddenly aware that he hasn't named his stake in this impromptu race.
The question emerges without the caution that should accompany it, without the careful risk assessment I usually conduct before entering any contest with uncertain outcomes.
He gives me a look so sinful it should be classified as a weapon, eyes darkening to the color of gunmetal, lips curving in a smile that promises things I'm not sure I'm ready to receive.
The expression is so unexpected on his usually controlled features that it momentarily steals my breath.
Also makes him look at least ten years younger…
"I get to spread you wide eagle on my bike and enjoy that slick covered pussy of yours."
The words hit me like a splash of cold water in my face; crude, explicit, and utterly shocking coming from his cultured mouth.
The mental image they create— me spread across the seat of his motorcycle, exposed and vulnerable, his mouth between my thighs —sends heat flooding through my body, pooling low in my belly and between my legs with embarrassing immediacy.
I gawk at him, unable to formulate a response, my body's reaction at war with my mind's astonishment.
Before I can gather myself, before I can accept or reject the terms he's laid out with such shocking directness, he drops his visor and takes off.
The powerful engine of his motorcycle roars as he accelerates up the ramp and out into the daylight, leaving me literally in his dust, still reeling from his proposition.
"You fucking cheater!" I yell after him, the words echoing in the now-empty garage. The indignation in my voice can't quite mask the underlying excitement, the anticipation that has nothing to do with the race and everything to do with its potential outcome.
The realization that he's already gaining ground leaves me no time to process the implications of what he just proposed. I scramble to put on my helmet— a perfect match to the bike, black with flame details and gold accents —and secure the strap with hands that aren't quite steady.
I rev the engine with perhaps more force than necessary, feeling the machine respond beneath me with eager power.
Then I'm off, following the path Marcus took up the ramp and out into the open air.
The bike responds like a living thing beneath me, powerful and responsive in ways that make my heart race with pure adrenaline. The acceleration pushes me back against the seat, wind rushing past my helmet as I lean into the first curve of the driveway.
The handling is impeccable, the machine moving as if it can read my thoughts, anticipating my commands before I fully articulate them.
As I chase Marcus through the winding roads that lead away from the lake house, I'm struck by the perfect metaphor this race provides.
Me, pursuing a man who's been several steps ahead of me for years. Him, finally allowing me to close the distance, perhaps even letting me catch up if I prove worthy of the challenge.
Win or lose, this race already feels like victory—a gift of freedom, of agency, of the opportunity to chart my own course rather than having it dictated to me.
The wind rushing past my helmet carries away the last traces of tears from earlier, replacing emotional catharsis with physical exhilaration.
Ahead, Marcus takes a curve with expert precision, his larger frame leaning into the turn with practiced ease. I follow his line, mimicking his approach, learning from his expertise even as I seek to surpass it.
The road stretches before us, possibility unfurling with each mile, each curve, each moment of shared pursuit. And for the first time in seven years, I'm not running from something—I'm racing toward something.
Toward challenge, connection, and a future I never allowed myself to imagine but suddenly can't stop considering.
Win or lose, something has already been decided.
And as I accelerate into the next curve, chasing the man who saved me once and might be saving me again in ways neither of us fully recognize, I can't help but feel that the real journey is only just beginning.