Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
Tessa
The morning light was grey and diffused, filtering through the tall windows of the master bedroom, but for once, it didn’t look judgmental. It looked soft.
I woke up by degrees, floating up from the bottom of a sleep so deep it felt like a coma.
My body was a map of dull, satisfying aches.
My inner thighs throbbed with a phantom fullness, my hips felt bruised where fingers had dug in, and the skin of my neck stung pleasantly where Anders had scraped his teeth.
It wasn't the jagged, shredding pain of withdrawal. It was the heavy, sated soreness of a body that had been used, claimed, and thoroughly wrecked.
I stretched, a low groan vibrating in my chest, my toes curling into the sheets.
The bed was a disaster zone. Pillows were scattered on the floor.
The duvet was twisted into a knot at the foot of the mattress.
The sheets smelled overwhelmingly of spiced chai, dark chocolate, and bourbon, a musk so thick I could practically taste it on my tongue.
It was the smell of a pack. My pack. I knew that in my bones.
I reached out, engaging in the muscle memory of years of solitude, expecting cold sheets.
My hand brushed warm, rumpled cotton. Empty, but warm.
I sat up, pushing hair out of my eyes. The room was empty, but the door to the en-suite bathroom was cracked open. Steam billowed out in lazy white ribbons, carrying the scent of expensive soap and hot humidity.
The sound of running water was a steady, rhythmic drumbeat against the tile.
I slid my legs out of bed. My knees wobbled when my feet hit the floor, a reminder of just how hard Daniel had driven me into the mattress, of how long Simon had kept me on the edge.
I grabbed the silk robe from the floor and pulled it around my shoulders.
It felt frictionless against my sensitized skin.
I walked toward the steam.
The master bath was a temple to minimalism, slab slate floors, chrome fixtures, and a shower cavernous enough to wash a small car in. Through the frosted glass door, I could see a tall, broad-shouldered silhouette standing under the spray.
I opened the door.
The heat hit me instantly, wrapping around me like a wet towel. Anders stood under the rainfall shower-head, one hand braced against the dark gray tile, his head bowed as the water cascaded over him.
He looked incredible.
Without the charcoal suit, without the crisp white shirt and the silk tie, he was just…
pure, raw architecture. His back was a landscape of defined muscle, the water tracking down the deep channel of his spine.
His golden hair was plastered to his skull, dark with moisture. He looked stripped down, elemental.
He must have heard the door swing, or maybe he just sensed the change in air pressure, because his head lifted. He turned slowly.
His eyes pinned me. They weren't the icy, assessing blue of the businessman investigating a contract breach. They were darker, blown wide by the steam and the memory of the night.
"You're awake," he said. His voice was rough, a gravelly rasp that skittered down my spine.
"The bed was empty," I murmured, clutching the lapels of my robe. "I woke up and… the silence was loud."
Anders turned fully, water sluicing down his chest, over the flat planes of his stomach, and into the dark-gold hair trails that disappeared lower. He shut off the water, leaving a sudden, ringing quiet, then reached for a thick white towel.
"Daniel and Simon went to check the perimeter," he said, wiping his face. "The storm broke the tree line. They’re clearing branches from the driveway."
"And you?"
"I’m cleaning up the mess," he said simply.
He dropped the towel and stepped out of the stall, disregarding his nudity with an arrogant ease that made my mouth go dry. He walked straight to me, dripping wet, smelling of clean soap and underlying bourbon heat.
"Drop the robe," he commanded.
It wasn't a bark. It wasn't the angry order of the man in the kitchen. It was soft. Intimate.
I let the silk slide off my shoulders. It pooled on the wet tile floor.
Anders’ gaze dragged over me, heavy and physical. He looked at the bruises mottling my hips, the bite mark on my shoulder, the way my skin was flushed pink from the residual heat in my blood.
"We were rough," he noted, his brow furrowing slightly. He reached out, tracing a purple mark on my collarbone with a wet thumb. "Are you hurting?"
"I'm sore," I admitted, leaning into his touch. "But I'm not hurt. I feel… real. Grounded."
"Good."
He stepped back into the shower stall and turned the water on again, adjusting the temperature. He gestured for me to join him.
I stepped onto the slate floor. The water was hot, bordering on scalding, just the way I liked it. It beat down on my shoulders, loosening the tension in my neck instantly.
Anders picked up the bottle of body wash, my expensive bergamot stuff, and squeezed a generous amount onto a natural sponge.
"Turn around," he murmured.
I obeyed.
He began to wash me.
It was an act of service so tender it made my throat tight. He wasn't trying to arouse me; he was taking care of me. He scrubbed my back in slow, firm circles, working the lather into my skin before he moved down to my hips, his large hands soaping away the sweat and the fluids of the night before.
"You carried so much tension here," he said quietly, his thumbs digging into my lower back. "For years, probably. Sitting in that chair. Hunching over a keyboard."
"I was hiding," I whispered, closing my eyes as the water rinsed the suds away.
"I know." He moved to my front, turning me gently. He knelt on the wet tile, Anders Svinton, the man who seemed like he wouldn't sit on a park bench without checking for dust, was kneeling on my shower floor.
He washed my legs, lifted my foot, washed the arch, the ankle, and moved up my calf. He was meticulous. I felt like a priceless artifact that had been recovered from a shipwreck.
"You deserve to be clean," he said, his voice low, vibrating against my thigh. "You deserve to start fresh."
He stood up, towering over me, water streaming down his face. He cupped my jaw, his thumbs sweeping over my cheeks.
"Tessa," he breathed.
Then he kissed me.
It started soft, a tasting, a reassurance. But the moment our mouths connected, the spark flared. It wasn't the raging inferno of the heat spike, but it was hungry. It was the possessiveness of a man who had claimed something valuable and wasn't about to put it back in the vault.
He walked me backward until my shoulder blades hit the cool, wet wall of the shower.
"Anders," I gasped, breaking the kiss as his hands slid down my wet ribs to grip my waist.
"I can still smell him on you," Anders growled, burying his face in my neck, inhaling deeply. "Simon. And Daniel. You smell like the whole pack."
"Is that... bad?"
"It's maddening," he corrected, nipping at the junction of my neck and shoulder. "And it's perfect. But right now, I want you to remember who locked you down."
He lifted me.
It was effortless. He hooked his hands under my thighs and hoisted me up, pinning me against the tiles. I wrapped my legs around his waist instinctively, the wet skin creating a friction that was electric.
"Hold on," he warned.
He didn't prep me this time. He didn't need to. My body was still open, still receptive, still humming with the need for him.
He thrust into me.
I cried out; the sound echoing off the stone walls, muffled by the spray of the water. He filled me completely, stretching the sore muscles, pressing against the deepest part of me.
"Mine," he hissed against my ear. "You are mine, Tessa Kane. My author. My Omega."
He began to move, quick and punishing. It wasn't the slow, tectonic shifting of Daniel or the artistic exploration of Simon. It was rhythmic, efficient, and devastatingly intense. He slammed into me, driving my back against the wall with every thrust, knocking the air from my lungs.
"Anders, please," I begged, my head falling back, water streaming into my mouth. "It's too deep."
"It's exactly deep enough," he countered, grabbing my hair to pull my head back, kissing me hard, swallowing my moan.
His hands gripped my buttocks, spreading me, angling me to take him deeper. The water sluiced between our joined bodies, hot and slick. The scent of bourbon exploded in the steam, intoxicating me.
I forgot the soreness. I forgot the future. I forgot everything except the sharp, stinging reality of his authority.
He came quickly, a harsh, guttural shout tearing from his throat as he drove into me one last time and held it there, trembling against the wall. I unraveled around him, my internal muscles clamping down on his length, wringing the release from him.
He lowered his forehead to mine, both of us panting, our hearts hammering in sync against our ribs.
"Sustainable," he rasped, the word nonsensical in the moment.
"What?" I breathed.
He let me slide down slowly until my feet touched the tile. He didn't let go, keeping his arms looped around me, supporting my weight as my legs threatened to give out.
"This," he said, gesturing vaguely to the steam, to us. "Us. It's sustainable. The data supports it."
I let out a wet, startled laugh. "You're analyzing the data of shower sex?"
"I am analyzing the long-term viability of the pack dynamic," he corrected, though a small, rare smile touched the corner of his mouth. "And the projections are favorable."
He turned off the water. The silence rushed back in, but it felt cleaner now. Lighter.
We stepped out onto the bath mat. Anders grabbed another towel and dried me off with brisk, efficient motions, drying my hair, my back, and my legs. Then he wrapped the towel around me like a cocoon and tucked the end in.
He wrapped a towel around his waist and leaned back against the vanity, crossing his arms over his chest. The steam was clearing, revealing his face, which looked sharper now, the businessman returning to the surface.
"The county plow came through an hour ago," he said. "The main road is clear. The bridge crew is estimating structural integrity by noon."
Reality. It hit me like a splash of ice water.
"So we can leave," I said, my voice small. "The trap is open."
"We can," Anders agreed. He watched me carefully. "The question is, do we want to?"
I walked over to the window, rubbing a circle in the condensation on the glass. Outside, the world was a brilliant, washed-out grey. The storm had stripped the trees bare, leaving a carpet of pine needles and broken branches.
"I built this place to keep the world out," I whispered. "But now... it feels small. It feels like a cage."
"Isolation was a survival strategy," Anders said, coming up behind me. He didn't touch me, but I could feel his heat radiating against my back. "It worked when you were wounded. But you aren't wounded anymore, Tessa. You're weaponized."
I turned to face him. "Weaponized?"
"You have a pack, if you want us" he said. "You have a shield wall. You don't need to hide on a cliff edge to be safe."
He reached out, tucking a damp strand of hair behind my ear.
"We talked about it. While you were sleeping."
"The pack meeting?" I asked, a wry smile tugging at my lips.
"Strategy session," he corrected. "We have operations in the city. The agency. The studio. Daniel’s recording booth. Simon’s loft. It creates a logistical nightmare to commute here."
My stomach dropped. "So you're leaving."
"No," Anders said firmly. "We are relocating the asset."
I stared at him. "You want me to move to the city?"
"I want you to be where we can reach you in ten minutes, not two hours," he said. "I have a brownstone in Seaboard. Four floors. Secure entry. Private garden. Fiber optic internet that actually works."
He paused, gauging my reaction.
"There's a library on the second floor," he added, throwing the bait. "Floor-to-ceiling mahogany shelves. A fireplace."
"And a lock on the door?" I asked.
"If you want one," he said. "But Daniel thinks the guest suite on the third floor has better light for Simon’s studio. And the basement is soundproofed."
"Soundproofed?"
"For Daniel's recording," Anders said smoothly, though his eyes darkened with a different implication. "And other activities that require volume."
I flushed, the memory of my screaming in the bedroom bubbling up.
"It sounds... crowded," I said.
“What if we move our operations here?" Anders countered. "We can upgrade the satellite. Simon can draw the ocean. Daniel can commute for the big gigs."
"Daniel catches a cold if the temperature drops below sixty," I pointed out, remembering the few times my audiobooks had to be delayed because he lost his voice. "The damp here would kill him."
Anders smirked. "He did complain about the draftiness of the floorboards."
I looked around the bathroom. My pristine, sterile, lonely fortress.
"I don't know if I can go back to the city," I admitted. "The noise. The people. Graduation Girl."
"I told you," Anders said, his face hardening. "I scrubbed her. She's gone. And anyone who remembers her will have to go through me, then Daniel, then Simon before they even get a glimpse of you."
He took my hand, lacing his fingers through mine. His grip was tight, possessive, anchoring.
"You aren't the girl who ran away anymore, Tessa. You're the one who stood in the living room and demanded what she wanted."
He squeezed my hand.
"So tell me. What do you want?"
I looked at him. The man who had cleaned me, claimed me, and was now offering to rebuild my entire life around his.
It felt terrifying. It felt huge.
But for the first time in years, it didn't feel brittle. It felt like something that could hold weight.
"I want breakfast," I said.
Anders let out a startled bark of laughter.
"And then?"
"And then," I said, looking at the door, "I want to see if Daniel really cleared the driveway. Because if we're moving to the city, I'm going to need a lot of boxes."
Anders pulled me into his chest, kissing the top of my damp head.
"I'll call the movers," he promised. "We handle the logistics. You just write the ending."
I leaned against him, listening to the steady, strong thump of his heart. It sounded like a rhythm I could live with. It sounded sustainable.
"Okay," I whispered. "Let's go."