Chapter Nineteen
CAINE
It had been three months since the body turned up in district thirty-eight.
And nothing.
No more crumbs. No more attempts at rousing a reaction out of me.
Not a single trace of anything untoward.
It was as if nothing had happened: the tension had ceased and Ailemorth was as it was before.
I didn’t believe it was over. They’d spent too long enacting my daughter’s abduction to admit defeat at the first hurdle.
They would be planning, organising, drawing out the inaction just to piss me off.
They’d expect complacency, my guard lowering to provide the perfect opportunity to strike.
They’d be disappointed.
I wasn’t the most patient man, but I had perseverance. Whenever they decided to pounce, be it tomorrow, next month, or three years from now, we’d be ready for them. I would protect my pack, Dylan, and my child, with every atom of power and leverage at my fingertips.
The only pity would be that the bastards wouldn’t survive long enough for regret to dawn on their worthless faces.
I’d finished my commitments for the morning—or at least, as many as I could be arsed to do.
Business was slow, no one was in need of immediate aid, and there were no new reports.
I headed toward Minseo’s playroom to offer an escort to the Toy Emporium.
She would be two in a fortnight, and I intended to get ahead on figuring out her current interests—she was as fickle as her father.
Perhaps a couple of pre-birthday gifts were also in order, if only to earn the exasperated glare Dylan would aim at me.
Before I reached the door to her nursery, however, a delicious scent wafted past my nose.
It came from the room adjacent. Dylan’s bedroom.
I inhaled it into my lungs. His regular essence was at the forefront, fresh and floral, but there was a warmth fusing with it.
An undercurrent of eagerness and anticipation.
It was faint, gradually building in intensity—an enticing sample of what was to come.
He was in preheat.
Had it been six months already?
The toy store could be postponed—I crossed the hallway, knocking on Dylan’s door instead. There was a curse and a scuffle of bare feet, before a restless and flustered omega opened the door, peeking through the gap. His dilated eyes widened.
“Caine.”
“Dylan.”
The door swung a fraction wider, and I noted he was in his comfortable clothes.
Loose, oversized, no risk of overstimulating his sensitive skin.
His hair was tied back, strands falling in every direction as if he’d been running his fingers through it.
He looked delicate, soft, and transparent. Irresistible.
“May I come in?”
“Uh . . .” He hesitated, glancing over his shoulder, his teeth worrying his bottom lip. He faced me again, his expression a nervous grimace. “I’m going into heat.”
“I’m aware.”
He chewed the inside of his cheek next. “You can come in,” he agreed, but his posture straightened defensively, his eyes narrowing. “But it’s not ready yet.”
I tilted my head, but before my words formed, he tugged the door open the rest of the way, stepping aside to allow me in. The scent was stronger, with the barrier between us gone. It washed over me, and my feet followed it, striding further into the room.
That was when my gaze landed on what he was referring to.
I’d interrupted him building a nest.
There were pillows of all shapes, sizes, and plumpness placed around three edges of the bed, draped with blankets and . . . my shirts. I hadn’t noticed them missing, or him sneaking in to take them. Little thief.
For once it looked like he cared about it. It was well-structured, comfortable, inviting, and it was a sign Dylan felt more at ease in his environment. He hadn’t thrown one together because it was what his nature dictated for him to do. He was taking pride in it, taking his time.
He was creating it to show it off.
“Is it . . . alright?” he uttered from beside me, and I realised he must have been staring, watching for my reaction. Apprehensive. “I can change it if—”
“I’d say it’s your best one yet,” I teased.
He released an amused breath through his nose. “Fuck off.”
I parroted the sound before stepping forward to curl my fingers around his nape, squeezing gently. He sighed, melting into the touch. “It’s very good, Dylan.”
It was subtle, but he preened. Gratification radiated from him in a thick flurry of pheromones. It was heady. “I need to finish it,” he said, glancing up at me.
“Go ahead.”
He nodded and drifted toward the bed. He climbed into the middle, on his knees, bending over the side to fetch the leftover pillows and blankets he’d heaped on the floor.
I observed him—his concentration, his meticulousness—and a glowing sensation swelled in my chest. Pride.
He was in my house, feeling safe and willing enough to allow himself the indulgence, and he’d welcomed me to witness it.
This stage was unfamiliar to me in a visual sense.
His last heat, I’d distanced myself until he was in the full throes.
Though, even if I’d gone to him sooner, he’d been too wrought with distress to do much more than tread the floor thin.
He hadn’t wanted it. He’d tried to resist the urges clawing at him, but now .
. . it was different. He wasn’t agitated or high strung.
His outward appearance was relatively calm, bar the fidgeting.
Not so reluctant for this one to arrive.
He wasn’t yet near the frantic state of craving a knot, his body burning from the inside out, but it’d be under the surface.
Brewing.
He would be aching, starting to cramp. His senses would be heightening, his instincts pining for simple comforts and a place to luxuriate. He was still fully aware, just more impulse driven. Which meant he was profoundly at peace with it happening.
He was content with me being here.
“I think I’m done,” he announced, flopping onto his arse. He brushed his hands over the blankets, smiling as his entire being visibly loosened. Settled.
“Are you content?” I found myself asking, a generalisation. He nodded.
“Yeah. Feels nice.”
“Would you like to be left in peace until the first wave starts?”
His movements paused, and he glanced up. There was a fragility in his eyes, and he only pondered for another moment before saying, “I want you to stay.”
I acknowledged the request, and approached.
Dylan wriggled in place, lifting a hand to his shoulder and gripping the muscle.
He winced, rolling out his back, clearly in pain.
Or stiff. No doubt from all the hunching over as he’d assembled his nest, and the standard twinges brought on by the loss of strain.
He was often primed, taut as a bowstring, but with his body shifting to a more pliant condition, he would feel all those aches the tension had been masking.
I stripped off my waistcoat, hanging it over the chair in the corner before loosening my tie enough to undo the top button of my shirt.
My finger brace was removed, set on the bedside table.
I advanced to the bed, lowering myself into the space between the cushions and blankets, my feet firmly on the floor.
I revelled for a moment, appreciating his efforts and grazing my fingers over the array of textures.
It satisfied him.
I extended my hand to him, and though he frowned suspiciously, he took it, resting his palm over mine.
Before he could oppose, I tugged him forward, steering his body until he was spread out on his front across my lap—his top half on the bed at one side, his legs out flat behind him.
He flailed, releasing a disgruntled snarl.
“What are you—”
“Settle,” I said, pinching his nape again, a mild rumble emitting from my chest. He stopped thrashing, falling silent. Still rigid. “You’re safe.”
Removing my hand, I raked both down either side of his spine, tracing the curve under my palms. I reached the bottom of his back, my fingers hooking around his hips as my thumbs pressed roughly into the dimples, kneading out the knots.
He moaned in pleasure. “Okay,” he slurred against the mattress. He lazily crossed his arms in front of him, resting his cheek on the join. “You can stay.”
I scoffed lightly.
With my injured fingers extended, I rubbed my knuckles into the supple tissue above his arse, before sweeping my hands in a fanned motion, smoothing it all out.
I worked my way up his back, the pressure firm as I massaged over every inch, paying particular attention to his shoulder blades.
It wasn’t until I was tending to the sensitive spot at the base of his neck, my thumbs stroking over the skin, that he started getting a little . . . twitchy.
“Does that feel good?” I asked, already sensing the answer.
Now I was aware of it, his scent had spiked. Deeper, spicier. He adjusted in my lap, crawling upward barely a centimetre, and his hard prick brushed against my leg.
He shuddered.
“Yeah,” he gasped, voice shaking. “Keep going.”
I hummed an assent, targeting his neck and shoulders before retracing my path.
Dylan stirred against me, subtle motions that grew in purpose as I focused my ministrations on his lower back again.
His eyes were closed, his brows knitted, and his bottom lip was wedged between his teeth, stifling his voice.
His arms were still tucked under his face, but his fingers were clutching fiercely at the bedsheets for leverage.
His arousal must’ve been simmering in his belly for a while, a low thrum, waiting to be coaxed out.
Receptive to any stimulation. His thrusts gained momentum, each movement stilted, uncoordinated.
Close to the edge. He scratched at the blankets, his body conflicted.
Undecided on whether to chase the friction on his cock or seek a plug for his hole.
His jaw clenched, he whined high in his throat, his toes curled.