Chapter 2 Territorial Instincts #2
Not at her—never at her, even when she drives me insane with her stubborn refusal to accept help or admit weakness.
I'm angry at a world that forces her to hide.
Angry at the suppressants she has to take and the binding she wears, and the voice she has to fake.
Angry at every entitled piece of shit Alpha who looks at "Rory Lane" and sees a target instead of the brilliant, talented, fucking extraordinary woman underneath.
Breaking the kiss, I pull back just enough to see her face.
She gives me that bored stare she's perfected over years of dealing with my shit, lips slightly parted and still wet from the water transfer.
Those lips that are fuller than they should be on someone pretending to be male, that she usually keeps pressed in a thin line or curled in a smirk to disguise their shape.
It only makes me tighten my grip around her neck—not enough to hurt, never to hurt, but enough that she can feel the possession in the gesture.
"Do you have a choking fetish now?" she asks, voice pitched carefully low but with that slight rasp that happens when she's been talking all day.
I roll my eyes, even as my body responds to the challenge in her tone.
"Says the woman who can't stay hydrated without supervision."
"I was hydrated until someone kicked my bottle."
"And you were too stubborn to go back inside for another one."
"I had one." She gestures vaguely at the empty bottle still in her hand. "It's not my fault it leaked."
I finally release her throat, watching as she brings her fingers up to touch where my hand was. Her pulse is still elevated—I can see it beating frantically in the hollow of her throat.
She catches my smirk and straightens, crossing her arms in that defensive posture she uses when she's trying to establish boundaries.
"We're in public. There are cameras."
I snort.
"You're not stupid enough to get caught on a camera when you're overwhelmed or tired. You know every camera installed in this facility and check them every day before your shift starts, so you can fuck off with that bullshit excuse."
She shrugs, the movement pulling her coveralls tight across her shoulders.
"Whatever."
But then she goes still in a way that makes my Alpha instincts immediately go on alert.
Her eyes have that distant look, like she's seeing something that isn't there. Or not seeing what is there. Her face has gone slightly pale under the grease smudges, and her breathing has that shallow quality that means her body's not getting enough oxygen.
I don't think.
I just move.
My hand grabs her chin, forcing her face up so she has no choice but to look at me instead of whatever void she's staring into. I lean in close, letting my scent wash over her in a way that should trigger her Omega instincts even through the suppressants.
"Aurora," I whisper, putting every ounce of Alpha command I can muster into her real name.
She blinks, and I can literally see the moment she comes back to herself. The confusion clears from her eyes, replaced by that sharp intelligence I've always admired, even when it's turned against me.
One eyebrow arches.
"Why are you using your 'sexy in bed' voice on me at work?"
Despite everything, my lips twitch.
"Stop touching me," she adds, swatting at my hand with more annoyance than actual force.
But I don't let go.
Instead, I shift my grip from her chin to her forehead, pressing my palm flat against her skin to check for fever.
"The fuck are you—" She grunts and tries to shoo me away like I'm an annoying insect.
No fever, at least. Small mercies.
I pull my hand back, studying her face with the kind of attention I usually reserve for race strategy and mechanical diagnostics.
"When did you eat?"
She stares at me.
Just... stares, with those emerald eyes that are a shade darker than her brother's, like shimmering jewels hidden by clouds instead of clear crystals twinkling in the sunlight.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with implication.
"Fucking hell," I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose because of course. Of fucking course. "You're always cooking for everyone and their aunties at home, but god forbid you feed yourself fucking bread while you work fourteen-hour days."
"It's not that serious—"
I flick her forehead.
Not hard enough to actually hurt, but enough that she jerks back with an indignant "Oww!" and glares at me like I just committed a war crime.
"You're lucky our families are on good terms," I tell her, letting my frustration bleed into my voice, "or I'd let you just die from starvation out of spite."
"Fuck off," she shoots back, but her voice has climbed half an octave without her realizing it.
That higher pitch that happens when she's actually comfortable.
When she forgets to maintain the careful vocal control that keeps her in the lower register expected of male Alphas.
When she's just Aurora instead of "Rory Lane" the persona.
I try not to think about the fact that the only other time I get to hear her real voice is when I'm seven inches deep inside her, forcing her to whimper and scream my name while her suppressants fail completely under the onslaught of Alpha pheromones, Omega biology, and pure, desperate need.
Try and fail spectacularly, because my body's already responding to the memory.
To the ghost sensation of her clenching around me, the way her nails dig into my shoulders, the absolutely devastating sounds she makes when I—
Her phone timer goes off with a shrill beep that cuts through my increasingly inappropriate thoughts.
"I'd better go back," she says, already turning toward the garage, "before they think I'm walking off the job."
She takes exactly three steps before her knees buckle.
Fuck!
I catch her before she hits the ground, one arm around her waist and the other supporting her shoulders. Her weight sags against me in a way that triggers every protective instinct I have.
"Che cazzo—" She blinks rapidly, confusion written across her features as she tries to figure out why the world just tilted. "Cosa sta succedendo—"
Italian.
She always reverts to Italian when she's overwhelmed or caught off guard, the language of her mother's side of the family flowing out in a stream of increasingly creative insults as I lift her completely off her feet.
"Put me down, you absolute walnut of a man—"
"No."
"Cale—"
"Not happening, princess."
More Italian cursing follows, but she's not actually struggling, which tells me she knows she needs help even if her pride won't let her admit it.
The break room is blessedly empty when I shoulder through the door. I set her down on the table—not gently, because gentleness would imply weakness and she'd probably punch me for it—and she makes an indignant noise as her ass hits the surface.
There's a box of donuts on the counter, probably brought in by one of the morning shift crew. I grab the nearest one—chocolate frosted, a favorite of hers—and shove it toward her mouth.
"Eat."
She glares at me but takes a bite when I refuse to back down, chewing with exaggerated annoyance while maintaining eye contact like this is some kind of dominance challenge.
Fine.
I can out-stubborn her any day of the week.
I grab a fresh water bottle from the mini fridge, crack it open, and set it within reach. She takes the donut from my hand, probably to preserve what's left of her dignity, and continues eating with that same resentful expression that makes me want to kiss her again just to wipe it off her face.
I wait until she's downed half the water bottle before speaking.
"Get your ass back to doing your job you love so much," I tell her, letting my voice drop into that commanding register that makes her spine straighten instinctively. "But I'm going to bring food, and you're going to stop and eat it when I arrive. Understand?"
She huffs, wiping chocolate frosting from the corner of her mouth with her thumb.
"Fine."
"Say it."
"I'll eat your stupid food when you bring it, you controlling asshole."
Close enough.
I turn to leave, already calculating what I can get delivered that will have enough protein and calories to keep her functioning through the rest of her shift.
Something she actually likes instead of just tolerating, because if I'm going to enforce eating breaks, I might as well make them something she'll actually consume.
"Cale."
I pause at the door, looking back over my shoulder.
She's still sitting on the table, water bottle in one hand and half-eaten donut in the other, her expression softer than it was a moment ago. Almost vulnerable in a way she rarely allows herself to be.
"Thanks," she says quietly, so quiet I almost miss it.
My chest does something complicated. Something warm and possessive and achingly tender in a way that has no place in whatever toxic, hot-and-cold thing we've been doing for years.
"Don't mention it," I manage, keeping my voice level even as my Alpha instincts are practically purring with satisfaction at having provided for her. "Seriously. Don't. I have a reputation to maintain."
She snorts, and the sound is so perfectly her—unguarded and genuine—that I have to force myself to leave before I do something stupid like cross the room and kiss her again.
The door closes behind me, and I lean against it for a moment, letting my head fall back against the metal as I try to get my shit together.
This is torture.
Being close to her, knowing her secret, wanting her with an intensity that borders on obsession, while having to pretend our connection is nothing more than rivalry and convenient fucking when no one's watching.
But as I push off the door and head back toward the garage, already pulling out my phone to order food, I know I wouldn't have it any other way.
Because Rory Lane—brilliant, stubborn, infuriating Aurora—is worth every second of this complicated, messy, impossible situation.
Even if it kills me.