Chapter 37 Ashton
Chapter thirty-seven
Ashton
Stay here and stay quiet.
“Wait... what?”
Stefan’s words don’t really register with me.
I'm a little confused and groggy and overstimulated, my brain struggling to process anything beyond the overwhelming sensations flooding my system.
My body feels like it's on fire, every nerve ending sparking with awareness.
I can't even feel the pain from my injuries anymore, not the bruised ribs, not the stitches in my side, nothing.
The pleasure coursing through my veins has overridden everything else, leaving me floating in a haze of need.
It's like I can feel everything Solana must be feeling, every time I take a breath.
Her heat scent permeates the entire house, coating my tongue and filling my lungs with each inhale.
And with every breath, my body responds like it's my own heat, like I'm the one being taken apart by Alphas in the other room.
My cock is hard and aching, straining against my sweatpants in a way that's bordering on painful.
I'm leaking steadily, pre-come dampening the fabric and adding to my discomfort.
The need for release is overwhelming, consuming, demanding attention I can't give it with Stefan likely dealing with whoever knocked on the door.
I push to my feet even though Stefan explicitly told me to stay put.
But if I don't move, if I just lie here in this bed saturated with Stefan's scent and Solana's heat bleeding through the walls, I really will come in my pants.
And I have some pride left, even if it's barely hanging on by a thread.
The room spins slightly as I stand, my legs unsteady beneath me. The fever makes everything feel disconnected, like I'm piloting my body from a distance. I grab the doorframe for support, my knuckles going white as I hold on and wait for the dizziness to pass.
I stumble forward into the hallway, using the wall for support. Each step requires concentration, my coordination shot to hell. That's when I hear it—a click of a gun being cocked, followed by Stefan's voice.
"What the fuck are you doing in here?"
My heart picks up, hammering against my ribs as the memory of everything that happened in the last several hours hits me all at once.
I'm still disoriented, the violence and the blood and the desperate flight through the woods.
My mind keeps replaying it in fragments and then, Stefan's hand tight on mine as we ran.
I know I should do something practical, call my father to let him know I'm alive, something.
But the truth is I never wanted any part of the life my father carved out.
I head down the hall toward the voices, my cock getting harder with every step. Solana's scent is coating everything out here, so much stronger than in the guest room. It wraps around me like a physical presence, making my head spin and my body ache with needs I can't fulfill.
By the time I reach the open living room and kitchen area, I'm barely holding myself together. My vision swims at the edges, my legs trembling with the effort of staying upright. I have to grip the wall to keep from falling, my fingers digging into the painted surface.
The scene in front of me snaps me back to awareness. Stefan stands with his gun fully cocked and pressed against a man's temple. The man is dressed like one of the ranch hands but something about him is off. His hands are too clean, his posture too tense, his eyes too alert.
I groan, recognition cutting through the haze. I know this man. Logan. One of my father's lower-level enforcers, someone who runs errands and delivers messages. Not particularly bright but loyal to Charles in the way that comes from fear rather than respect.
"Thank fuck," Logan says, his voice carrying relief despite the gun at his head. "We just wanted to make sure you were okay. Stefan wasn't sending any updates to your father and we got worried something happened to you."
The lie is obvious, poorly constructed. If they were actually worried about my safety, they would have called first. Sent a message. Not shown up unannounced and tried to gain entry without permission.
Logan takes a step forward, his hand moving slightly like he's going to reach for something. Stefan moves with frightening speed, pistol-whipping the man hard enough that I hear the crack of metal against bone. Logan staggers, blood streaming from a cut above his eyebrow.
Stefan roughly grabs Logan around the throat, slamming him back against the wall with enough force to rattle the picture frames. His face is inches from Logan's, his expression absolutely feral as he snarls.
"See, the fact that you know where Ashton is as well as having the audacity to step into someone else's house tells me that this has nothing to do with Ashton's safety and something else entirely.
" Stefan's voice is low and dangerous, carrying a threat that makes even me take a step back.
"Unfortunately for you, you came at a bad fucking time. "
Stefan drags Logan away from the wall, his grip never loosening on the man's throat despite Logan's attempts to pry his fingers loose.
He hauls him toward a small room on the other side of the living room, away from the bedrooms where Solana and her Alphas are.
Some kind of storage closet or utility room from what I can see.
Stefan shoves Logan inside and slams the door shut behind them. I can hear muffled sounds—Logan's voice raised in protest or pleading, Stefan's lower and harder. Then there's a heavy thud, followed by another, and then silence.
I stand there staring at the closed door, my heart racing. What is Stefan doing in there? Is he interrogating Logan? Hurting him? The silence stretches on, becoming more ominous with each passing second.
The door opens abruptly and Stefan steps back out into the living room. There's blood on his knuckles, his shirt rumpled, and that limp more pronounced than before. He stalks over to me with purpose, that limp somehow making him more intimidating rather than less.
He cups my face roughly and kisses me. The kiss steals what little breath I have left, his tongue pushing into my mouth with zero gentleness. When he pulls back, his eyes are nearly black.
"I told you to fucking stay put," he growls.
My brain struggles to form words, too caught up in the kiss and the adrenaline and the overwhelming scent of Alpha and Omega mixing in the air. "What did you do to him?"
"I secured him," Stefan says, his voice flat. "Because I need to know what the fuck to do with him and who sent him. Whether it was actually your father or someone else using your father's resources."
His hands are still on my face, his grip firm but not painful. "Right now, your ass needs to go back to bed before you collapse on the floor."
I snort despite the situation, despite everything. "I'm going to take a shower."
The words come out more defiant than I intend, but I need to do something. Need to get the sweat and fear and arousal off my skin, need a few minutes of privacy to deal with the erection that's been tormenting me for what feels like hours.
Stefan's jaw clenches, clearly unhappy with my refusal to follow instructions.
But then his expression shifts, something like understanding crossing his features.
He scoops me up without warning, one arm under my knees and the other supporting my back.
I let out an undignified yelp, grabbing onto his shoulders for stability.
"What are you—"
"If you're going to be stubborn, I'm at least making sure you get there without falling on your face," Stefan mutters, carrying me down the hall toward the bathroom.
The motion jostles my injuries, making me wince.
My ribs protest the position but I don't complain, too focused on the feeling of being held by him.
Stefan carries me like I weigh nothing, like his injured leg isn't screaming in protest, like he hasn't just pistol-whipped and secured a man in the storage room.
He sets me down carefully once we reach the bathroom, making sure I'm steady on my feet before letting go. "What do you need? Towels? Clothes?"
"I have my phone," I tell him, gesturing vaguely toward the guest room. "I'll call if I need anything. You go make sure everything is secure."
Stefan doesn't look like he wants to leave. His eyes track over me, cataloging injuries and assessing stability. His hand comes up like he's going to touch my face again, then drops back to his side.
"Lock the door," he finally says. "And if you hear anything, anything at all, you call me immediately."
"I will," I promise.
Stefan nods once, sharp and military-precise, then turns and limps back down the hall. I watch him go, tracking his movement until he disappears around the corner. Then I close the bathroom door and turn the lock with shaking hands.
The bathroom is spacious and clean, decorated in neutral tones that probably should feel calming but don't. Not with my heart still racing and my cock still achingly hard and my body temperature climbing higher with each passing minute.
I strip out of my clothes with fumbling fingers, my coordination shot to hell. The sweatpants are soaked with pre-come and slick, evidence of how close to heat I am despite it not being time. My t-shirt clings to my skin with sweat, peeling away reluctantly.
The mirror shows me what I already know.
I look wrecked. Flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, lips swollen from Stefan's kiss.
Bruises mottle my ribs in shades of purple and yellow, the stitches in my side stark black against pale skin.
I look like I've been through a war, which isn't far from the truth.
I turn on the shower, adjusting the temperature until the water runs hot. Steam begins to fill the bathroom, obscuring my reflection. I step under the spray with a groan of relief, letting the hot water cascade over my overheated skin.