Chapter 29 The Emperor has no Clothes
Chapter Twenty Nine
The Emperor has no Clothes
— Grayson —
Frustration hums beneath my skin, a mosquito-whine I can’t escape. It sharpens the hollow ache gnawing at my core, an emptiness that grows deeper with every passing moment. Vivien would say I’m hangry—but she’d have to be here to say it. And she most certainly fucking isn’t.
She’s here, yes. I feel her bond pulsing with satisfaction, but she’s not with me. It’s like she’s holding a piece of herself back, just far enough that I can only ache for it. After everything, after the endless time apart, the thought of going to my day death without her lilac scent wrapping around me, without her head resting on my chest—it twists something ugly and raw inside me.
It makes my monster want to tear free, to rip her redneck distraction to pieces. It wants Viv to submit, to acknowledge her place as my chyld. To remember who we are.
I’m still shaking my head at her behavior. I expected a clash between her and Sunday, maybe some barbed words, maybe claws. Instead, she cast me aside for a man with the depth of a puddle and nearly the same level of hygiene. She claimed she was “off dick,” yet she returned from Dae completely dickmatized .
She says she isn’t fucking him—and maybe that’s true—but she’s certainly been thinking about it. He’s not that charming.
The only upside to this shitshow of a reunion—the most disappointing since the Spice Girls—is that Tomas’ new house barely warrants a footnote. Tonight, it’s just an extra sprinkle of salt in the wound, where any other evening it would have been the headline, the beautifully appointed dagger twisting in my side.
The drive to the new “packhouse” is fraught, my patience worn to a thread. I can’t help letting some of my frustration bleed out. My throat is dry, my stomach a hollow pit, and being trapped here between the two most tempting beings on earth isn’t helping.
Tomas drives, his eyes locked on the road, while I try to process this latest development. I’ve already bought us a perfectly good home; if he’d mentioned he had something else planned, I would’ve thanked him for his foresight and offered to pay for it. But he didn’t, and now here we are. How do I not see this as him building his own pack, taking my mates with him?
Fucking Tomas. He’s forgotten his place, and I fully intend to remind him.
As if that weren’t enough, I’m also too damn big to be sandwiched in the middle of the backseat. My knees are practically in my throat, while both my mates flood me with psychic valium. And that makes me want to tear into something… or someone, just to spite them.
In the rearview mirror, I catch Sunday’s eyes. I’m actively ignoring her, and it’s not childish—it’s a matter of principle. She gives me a gentle smile, pushing calm into our bondspace, trying to soothe the storm she senses brewing.
“Grayson, how do we fix this for you?” Her voice is soft, careful, soaked in concern. She lays a hand on my arm. “I can tell you’re hungry, so let’s handle that before you go to sleep.”
“I don’t sleep, Sunday. I die . Something I’ve been doing every night for nearly twenty-four hundred years without your help.” The sarcasm slices, just as I intended, and she reacts beautifully.
“Hey, asshole.” She punches me in the arm, making Ben glance our way. “You and I are about to have a real fucking problem.”
“Well, whatever it is, I’m sure Tomas can solve it.”
“Oh, absolutely, he can,” Sunday snaps. “Every single time, he pushes his own needs aside to make sure the rest of us have what we need. He’s not some multi-millennia man-child.”
“I bought you your childhood dream home—with room for your whole harem. What else do you want from me?”
“Not a f ucking thing.”
“I’d give you Vivien’s number so you two can compare notes on how disappointing I am, but I don’t seem to have it anymore.”
Sunday rolls her eyes. “I can’t imagine why. Considering her Maker is such a delight to be around.”
“I do live to serve,” Leaning back, my head thuds against the headrest. I close my eyes, trying to steady myself. The hunger gnaws at me, an animal clawing inside my chest, more ravenous the longer I think about it.
Xavier mutters, “Diosa mía, todos aquí están locos.” Goddess, everyone here is crazy.
When we finally pull up to the farmhouse, I nearly stumble out of the car, desperate for space. Their scents cling to me. My monster bristles, certain that they’re ours, that they should be baring their throats and thanking us for the privilege of feeding.
But instead, they’re unloading leftovers and souvenirs from Dae. Yes, the imbecile actually treated his time as a fugitive in another realm like a trip to Coney Island.
Sunday stands on the stone steps, the farmhouse behind her. She levels me with a withering look. “Well, you’re a real treat tonight, Grayson.”
I bite back a retort, but the bitterness lingers like the taste of old blood. She sighs, exasperated, throwing her hands up. “Fine. I’m going to bed. Someone make sure The Emperor makes it inside before dawn,” she mutters to the others before turning on her heel and heading toward the house.
Ben trails after her, his quiet nod in my direction feeling more like dismissal than anything resembling sympathy.
Xavier lingers, that half-amused, half-annoyed expression they wear so damn well. Their emerald gaze meets mine, and I let a pulse of regret slip down our bond. They lift an eyebrow, the edge of their irritation softening just a fraction. With a slight nod, they finally follow the others, leaving me alone in the cooling night air.
I huff, running a hand through my hair, irritation gnawing at me—now tinged with guilt. For a moment, I let myself wallow in it, but the silence is unbearable. I’ve carved out this distance with my own hands, the hunger making that abyss feel darker and wider. I shove it down, focusing on the quiet that’s settled over the farmhouse.
Even I have to admit it: Tomas found a beautiful place for his pack.
Eventually, I slip inside, the sting of my own foolishness taking the edge off my frustration. The Alpha wolf waits for me, leaning against a wall, his gaze cutting straight through me. I pause, my eyes lingering on him. He’s changed. There’s a quiet strength to him now. He doesn’t bow, he doesn’t flinch—doesn’t parse his words or lower his eyes.
“Leaving Viv there was hard, I know,” he says much too gently.
A cutting response hovers on my tongue, but I let it die there, nodding instead.
He pushes off the wall, gesturing down the hall. “Let me show you the vampire level. It’s not as secure as your safe room in the Ruby Star, but we can…”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” I cut him off, feeling a hint of fatigue in my voice. “Probably perfect.” It’s true. That’s how he does everything—his attention to detail allows for nothing less.
He raises his eyebrows, looking surprised, but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he leads me down the hall to a plain, nondescript door. Inside is a coat closet—a bare hanging bar, empty shelves, and a dim bulb that flickers to life as he steps in.
“So, uh,” he says, glancing back at me with a small, almost apologetic smile, “the way this works is you have to close yourself in.”
I step forward, crowding into the small space, close enough to breathe in his scent—apple and campfire—and feel the air around us warm.
I clear my throat, my eyes landing somewhere over his shoulder, observing the cedar-paneled wall. “Thank you… for this.” I let the admission, the unspoken debt, hang there between us.
Tomas presses against the back wall of the closet, and with a soft click, it pops out and slides aside. Behind it is a heavy steel door, a keypad mounted flush to the side.
“So, not the latest biometrics,” he says with a shrug, “but we can update that. I was just trying to make it reasonably safe and habitable.”
“I could spend the day under a bed or in a bathtub covered by a blanket. This is more than habitable.”
He gives a brief nod, and soon we’re descending a set of narrow stairs, the sound of our footsteps echoing off the walls. At the bottom, we step into a large, long room—surprisingly spacious, with two doors off to the side.
“So, two bedrooms down here,” he says, gesturing around. “There’s a nice bathroom and a butler’s pantry. Furniture could use an update, but honestly, this space was kind of the selling point for me. Twelve feet of solid rock on either side and a three-foot slab under the house.” He glances over his shoulder at me as we walk, eyes sparking gold, something warm and almost… proud in his expression. “We’ll have a fire suppression system installed by the end of the month.”
I pause, taking it all in—the walls, the safety, the thought behind every detail. It hits harder than I expect: the proof that I wasn’t an afterthought. That he bought this place with me—and Vivien—in mind. A knot loosens inside me, something dark and petty unraveling in the face of that truth. It’s a rare thing to feel truly considered.
“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” I say, my voice rough.
He offers a faint smile, his eyes softening. “Yeah, well,” he says, not quite meeting my gaze, “I wanted you to have somewhere you’d actually want to stay.”
“How the hell did we get here, Tomas?” My voice sounds weary. “Nights like this, it feels like the whole thing’s unraveling, spinning out of my control.”
He gives me a tired smile, softening the new edges he’s carrying. “I get it. When I saw that townhouse you bought—I realized you’d been planning ahead without me. And, I guess I assumed we’d all get there together, somehow.” His eyes slide to the floor. “I went grocery shopping at midnight.”
I scrub a hand over my face, letting out a slow breath. “And I thought I’d get through today without biting anyone’s head off—metaphorically speaking, anyway—but look how well that turned out.” A bitter laugh escapes me, tinged with self-reproach. I can’t help but compare our reactions and find my own lacking.
He glances around, his shoulders tight, a flicker of discomfort crossing his face. “Need anything else?”
I don’t answer. Instead, hunger seizes me—brutal and sudden. My fangs drop with a soft, mortifying snick, and the urge crashes through me: the thought of pushing him against the wall, sinking my teeth into his neck, claiming something solid and warm—something familiar. It rises like a tide, drowning reason. A low, humorless chuckle escapes me, my gaze flicking to the cold stone walls, as if they might offer respite.
Tomas sighs, then begins rolling up his sleeve before extending his forearm to me. I stare at his offered wrist, tracing the tattoos I’ve come to know so well—strong lines, dark swirls, and a few scars threading through the ink, each mark familiar. He doesn’t waver. His gaze is steady, his arm held out like his benevolence means nothing at all.
“Here. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
I swallow, my gaze flicking from his wrist to his face. Hunger pulses through me, yes, but something else too—something deeper, tangled and dark, that I can’t quite push down.
“You shouldn’t,” I murmur, my voice raw. I’m not sure if I’m trying to convince him or myself.
“But I am,” he replies simply.
Any thought of putting him in his place evaporates, swept away by pure, gnawing need. My throat is dry, and the hunger drums a frantic rhythm in my veins. We don’t do this. Tomas doesn’t feed me.
“Look,” I rasp, my fingers flexing, “I’m not going to turn down a meal just to make some kind of moral point, Alpha.”
A small, bittersweet smile rises on his lips. “Wasn’t expecting you to. Water is wet and…”
The corner of my mouth twitches despite myself. “And vampires like blood.” It’s one of Ben’s sayings, and doesn’t it taste like bitter irony now?
The words barely leave me before my hand wraps around his forearm, my fingers pressing into the heat of his skin, feeling the subtle shift of muscle beneath my grip. My pulse quickens as I lower my head. The ink on his arm seems to writhe under my gaze, whispering an invitation, daring me to let go.
I bite back everything that isn’t raw, aching need.
The moment stretches—taut—suspended. It’s like I’m standing outside of myself, watching it unfold, knowing there’s no stopping what comes next. The monster inside me, feral and restless for hours, goes perfectly still, his eyes narrowed and watchful. The eerie calm before a storm breaks—the world caught in a breath, just before everything shatters.
His scent blooms, rich and layered, swelling to fill the space between us. Apple, campfire smoke, the faint sweetness of honey, and deeper still—ashes, herbs, and the warm spice of cardamom. The scent of my mate group, braided together in him. It’s a heady bouquet, and the urge to add my own to it roars through me.
I lick first, my tongue tracing over the warm skin. He shivers, the reaction almost imperceptible, but it’s there. The apple sharpens, sweetens, and beneath it pulses a current of lust and need that strikes me like lightning. It’s his.
Mine.
Ours.
I bite.
The hollow ache clawing at me eases as his blood hits my tongue—warm, alive, rich with power and the taste of everything I’ve been craving. My fangs sink deeper, the sacs behind them swelling with venom, waiting to be deployed—to make him more receptive, to bind him tighter, to ensure he’ll always return.
But I don’t.
I drink carefully, just enough to steady myself, to take the edge off the gnawing hunger. My cock throbs, a deep ache that mirrors the pulse of his blood flowing into me. His arousal rises, an undeniable echo of my own. It curls through the air between us, a silent admission neither of us acknowledges.
Like the man, his blood is complex—layered, steady, warm, and soaked in power. I savor two more mouthfuls before pulling back, feeling the depth of what passes between us. It’s unspoken but palpable, a quiet acknowledgment of what almost happened and perhaps why it can’t.
My lips pull away, fangs retracting. His gaze meets mine, gold flickering at the edges—raw and open in a way Tomas rarely allows. For a moment, there’s no wolf and no vampire—just two men bound by something they can’t fully name.
The shift in his scent tells me I could push this further. I could lick the puncture wounds, pull him to me, taste the skin of his neck. My monster flashes an image—us sinking to our knees, me pulling out the Alpha’s cock, running my tongue over each stud and ring. I dismiss the vision. It’s ludicrous. I’ll not be submitting to him, nor giving him that kind of control over me.
Here we are, again, like countless nights before—wanting but holding back, supporting each other even as everything else threatens to collapse around us. We don’t need words. We never have. The familiar ache of desire coupled with restraint presses against my chest. It’s almost comforting in its predictability.
We want and we resist.
I heal the punctures and roll down his shirt sleeve, buttoning it again before raising my gaze to meet his eyes—pupils blown wide, liquid gold pools staring back at me.
For a fleeting, wistful moment, I imagine asking him to stay—to let me slip into death with his wolf’s warmth beneath my fingertips and his blood still coursing through my veins. It’s a vision soaked in intimacy and longing. But that’s not who we are anymore.
I shake off the fantasy, knowing it’s probably fueled by my chyld’s defection, my monster’s gluttony, and this smoldering, unnamed thing that’s always stretched between us. I need to make sure he knows I appreciate him, but it’s time to let go of these old ghosts.
The sun’s pull grows heavier, an anchor dragging me down as I stagger toward the couch. Tomas moves in the periphery, turning to grab a blanket.
“When you rise, we have a few things to go over,” he says, his voice carrying that familiar undercurrent of responsibility.
My eyelids are already slipping shut, but I manage to arch a brow in question.
He chuckles softly, tucking the blanket around me. “Just politics. We’ll sort it out tomorrow. Rest well, Grayson.”
I think I manage a nod, maybe even a smile. There’s a weight that settles next to me—something solid, warm—but before I can make sense of it, darkness swallows me whole.