Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
Rowan
The penthouse smelled like victory.
Not the cheap, synthetic kind, the kind that came in a spray can and left a film on your skin.
This was the real thing: aged oak, the faint metallic tang of champagne left to warm in abandoned flutes, and the deep, resonant hum of an industry that had just been told, politely but firmly, to fuck off.
I stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching Zurich’s skyline glitter like a scattered handful of diamonds.
The lake was a black mirror below, the lights of the boats smeared into gold streaks.
Somewhere out in the world, Julian Vance was probably cursing us as his credit cards were declined and his empire crumbled into a pile of voided contracts.
Good.
I turned away from the glass.
The others were already here.
Stephen was at the bar, pouring whiskey into a tumbler with the precision of a man measuring out a lethal dose.
His cufflinks glinted under the low lights, platinum, engraved with a pattern I recognized from the Anchor Protocol’s legal filings.
Of course he’d had them made so he could wear them like armor.
Mateo was by the door, arms crossed, his broad frame blocking the entrance like a human deadbolt. He wasn’t watching the hall. He was watching me. His dark eyes tracked my movements with the quiet intensity of a man who had spent entirely too much time memorizing the exact weight of my footsteps.
Juno was sprawled across the sofa, one arm slung over the back, his golden-brown curls tousled from where he’d been running his fingers through them.
He looked like he’d been electrocuted, pupils blown, skin flushed, the scent of sandalwood and white tea clinging to him.
He was still riding the high of the press conference, the way he always did after a performance.
The way he needed to after a performance.
I knew that feeling. The crash. The hunger.
The need to confirm.
I walked toward them.
No one spoke. The air between us was thick with the kind of silence that only existed after a battle, when the guns were still warm and the adrenaline hadn’t quite bled out. The kind of silence that demanded to be broken.
Juno’s gaze locked onto mine. His lips curved, slow and deliberate, like he was tasting the shape of my name.
“You were ruthless up there,” he murmured.
“I was accurate,” I corrected, stopping in front of him.
“Same thing.”
I reached out, brushing my thumb over the pulse point at his wrist. His skin was hot. Too hot. He was still burning from the press conference, from the way he’d stood on that stage and let them see him, not the mask, not the strategist, but the Omega who had outmaneuvered every Alpha in the room.
The Omega who had chosen me.
Stephen set his glass down. The sharp clink of crystal against wood was the only sound in the room.
“You’re still dressed,” he observed, his voice low.
I looked down. My suit was immaculate, not a wrinkle in the fabric, not a hair out of place. I’d spent the last hour answering questions, fielding offers, watching the market react to the announcement like a sleeping giant waking up to find its chains broken.
I was still in armor.
I met Stephen’s gaze. “So are you.”
A beat. Then Stephen moved.
He didn’t rush. He never rushed. But when he closed the distance between us, it felt like gravity, inevitable and inescapable. His fingers found the top button of my blazer, slipping it free with a practiced ease. The fabric parted. Cool air hit the skin of my throat.
“This,” he said, tugging the blazer from my shoulders, “is no longer necessary.”
The jacket pooled on the floor.
Mateo made a sound, low, rough, the kind of noise that lived in his chest and only escaped when he was pushed past the edge of control. I turned my head just enough to see him, to watch the way his hands flexed against his biceps, the way his dark eyes burned.
“You’re overthinking,” Mateo said.
“I’m assessing,” I shot back.
Juno laughed, the sound rich and warm, cutting through the tension like a blade. “She’s always assessing.”
Stephen’s fingers found the next button. Then the next. My blouse fell open, the silk sliding apart to reveal the black lace beneath. His knuckles grazed the swell of my breasts, and I sucked in a sharp breath.
“Assessment period is over,” Stephen murmured.
Juno sat up, his movements fluid, predatory. He reached for me, his hands settling on my hips, pulling me down onto the sofa beside him. The leather was cool against the back of my thighs.
“You’re still in your head,” Juno accused, his breath hot against my ear. “And we’re here.”
His fingers traced the lace edge of my bra, following the line down to where it met my skin. I shivered.
“Prove it,” I challenged.
Juno’s smile turned sharp. “Gladly.”
He kissed me.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t the careful, measured press of lips I’d gotten used to from Stephen, or the bruising, claiming force of Mateo’s mouth.
This was Juno, all passion and heat, his tongue sweeping in to stake a claim, his hands tangling in my hair to hold me still.
I gasped against him, my fingers digging into his shoulders, and he laughed, a dark, triumphant sound that vibrated through my ribs.
I kissed him back just as hard, biting his lower lip hard enough to make him hiss. His hands slid up my thighs, pushing the skirt of my suit higher, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of my tights.
“These,” he decided, “are in the way.”
A sharp rip. The delicate fabric gave way under his fingers, the sound obscene in the quiet room.
I broke the kiss, breathing hard. “Those were three hundred euros.”
Juno smirked. “I’ll buy you new ones.”
“You’ll buy her ten pairs,” Stephen corrected, his voice rough. He was standing over us now, his glass abandoned, his eyes dark with something that made my pulse stutter.
Mateo was a step behind Stephen, a wall of heat and cedar and patience. Waiting. Always waiting.
Juno’s hands slid higher, his fingers finding the damp lace of my underwear. He didn’t tease. He didn’t ask. He just touched, his thumb pressing against my clit with a precision that made my hips jerk.
“Still assessing?” he murmured.
I couldn’t answer. My breath came in short, sharp gasps, my nails digging into the leather beneath me. Juno watched me with a hunger that bordered on reverence, his pupils blown, his scent wrapping around me like a promise.
“Good,” he decided. “Now feel.”
His fingers moved.
I arched into the touch, a broken sound tearing from my throat.
Juno’s mouth crashed back onto mine, swallowing the noise, his tongue tangling with mine as his fingers worked me with a ruthless, relentless rhythm.
All of my senses suddenly felt enhanced.
I could smell the whiskey Stephen had been drinking, the sweet rush of Juno’s own arousal, the way his body trembled against mine like he was holding himself back by sheer force of will.
A large hand closed around my ankle.
Mateo.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His touch was a brand as he knelt on the floor in front of me, his fingers sliding up the inside of my thigh, pushing my ruined tights aside.
His thumb joined Juno’s, pressing against me from the other side, and the dual pressure sent a jolt through me so violent I nearly came off the sofa.
“Fuck,” I gasped against Juno’s mouth.
“Not yet,” Juno murmured, his voice a dark purr. “We’re taking our time.”
At some point Stephen must have sat down because he was suddenly on the other side of me, opposite Juno, and his fingers had found the clasp of my bra.
The lace gave way with a whisper. Cool air hit my bare skin, followed by the heat of his palms, cupping my breasts, his thumbs circling my nipples until they ached.
I was surrounded. Overwhelmed. Owned.
And I had never felt so free.
Juno’s fingers slipped inside me, two, then three, stretching me with a slow, deliberate pressure that made my vision blur. I rocked into the touch, my body moving on instinct, chasing the friction, the more.
“Please,” I heard myself beg.
Juno’s lips curved against mine. “Since you asked so nicely.”
He shifted, his body moving over mine, his cock hard and heavy against my thigh. I reached for him, my fingers wrapping around him, stroking once, twice—
His breath hitched. “Not yet,” he growled. “I go first.”
I didn’t argue.
I couldn’t.
He was inside me before I could take another breath, filling me in one smooth, deep thrust that stole the air from my lungs.
I cried out, my back arching, my fingers clawing at his shoulders.
He was stretching me in a way that bordered on pain, but the way he moved, slow and deep and worshipful, turned the ache into something sacred.
“Look at me,” he demanded.
I forced my eyes open.
Juno was above me, his golden-brown curls falling into his eyes, his lips parted, his expression raw with something that looked suspiciously like love. His hips rolled, each thrust measured, deliberate, like he was memorizing the way my body responded to his.
“You’re ours,” he whispered.
The words hit me in a way I didn't expect and I came with a broken cry, my body clenching around him, my vision whiting out at the edges. Juno followed with a groan, his forehead pressing to mine, his breath hot against my skin.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of our ragged breathing, the way his heart hammered against my chest.
“My turn.”
Stephen’s voice was a blade, sharp and precise. He took Juno's place in one fluid movement, his hands gripping my hips, flipping me onto my stomach with a strength that made me gasp.
I barely had time to brace myself before he was inside me, deeper than Juno, thicker, the stretch burning in the best possible way. His hands tangled in my hair, pulling just enough to make my back arch, to make me feel the way he moved, hard, relentless, each thrust punishing in its perfection.