Chapter 7
DALTON
Being in Peyton’s arms again was like coming home, but it was a home I had burned down. I could smell the smoke on my skin.
Leaning on him felt good—too good. It was dangerous.
Every second I sat here, wrapped in his scent, was another second I was stealing from the future destiny promised him.
He said he chose me. He said the legacy didn’t matter.
But how could I trust that? How could I trust that he wouldn’t wake up one day, look at my graying hair and my inability to give him a child, and realize he’d made a mistake?
But God, I was weak. I couldn’t push him away again. Not tonight.
As we sat there, the silence heavy with things unsaid, I felt the length of my dick harden, pressing against the zipper of my jeans. My body didn’t care about logic or legacies. It just knew that its alpha was here.
“I want you to know…” I started, my voice rough. I needed to say it. I needed him to know that my leaving hadn’t been about wanting someone else. “There hasn’t been anyone else. I’ll understand if you took me at my word about the breakup… if there’s been someone…”
“Hush, Dalton.” Peyton’s grip tightened on my waist. “There hasn’t been anyone else. You’re it for me. I’m not looking to replace you.”
I looked up, searching his eyes for any sign of deception, but found only that intense, burning honesty that had always terrified me. “There could never be anyone like you, ever, beta mine.”
Beta mine.
The words hit me like a physical blow. A month ago, that endearment would have made me melt. Now? It felt like a brand. It reminded me of exactly what I was—and what I wasn’t. I wasn’t an omega. I wasn’t a carrier. I was just… his beta.
I stiffened, unable to help it.
“I’m sorry, Dalton,” Peyton said, his voice dropping an octave, sensing the shift. “You are my beta. You are so much more than your designation. Please, forgive an old alpha for not getting more with the times. Should I call you something more hip?”
He was trying to joke, trying to ease the tension, but I couldn’t smile.
“It’s not about being hip,” I muttered, looking away. “It’s just… it reminds me of why I left.”
“Then I’ll stop saying it,” Peyton said firmly. He grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him again. “But I won’t stop claiming you. You understand that? You can hate the title, but you don’t get to hate the belonging.”
I swallowed hard. “I don’t hate it. I just… I don’t know if I deserve it.”
“That’s for me to decide.” Peyton’s eyes darkened, the blue turning to a stormy gray. “And I decided a long time ago. Now, are we going to keep talking in circles, or are you going to admit that you’re hard?”
My face heated. “You’re one to talk. I can feel you against my hip.”
“I’ve missed you, Dalton. Too damn much.”
“I missed you too,” I admitted, the fight draining out of me again. My hips shifted against his, a friction that sent a jolt of electricity straight to my groin. “Bedroom?”
“Oh yeah. This way.”
I led him to the bedroom, kicking a pile of dirty laundry out of the way. I wished I’d cleaned, wished I was the kind of domestic partner who kept a perfect home, but I wasn’t. I made messes. I had flaws. And for some reason, this magnificent alpha still wanted me.
“I see moving five states hasn’t changed much,” Peyton noted dryly, eyeing the clothes on the floor.
“I don’t think you fell in love with my housekeeping skills anyway.”
“No,” Peyton murmured, stepping up behind me and biting the sensitive cord of my neck. “It was definitely the blow jobs.”
I let out a startled laugh, the sound surprising me. It felt good to laugh. It felt normal.
“Shut up,” I said, but I leaned back into him, letting his hands roam over my chest.
“Make me.”
Challenge accepted.
We undressed with a frantic desperation, buttons flying, zippers hissing. This wasn’t the slow, tender lovemaking of a reunion. This was a reclaiming. I needed to feel him. I needed to erase the last three weeks from my skin.
When I saw the new tattoo on his chest—my name, inked right over his heart—my breath hitched.
“You put my name on your chest?” I traced the healing skin, the letters stark and permanent.
“I wanted to know you were always with me even when I couldn’t find you,” Peyton said, his voice raw. “Dalton, don’t do that again.”
“I won’t,” I vowed, but even as I said it, the fear coiled in my gut. I won’t leave, but what if you make me?
We collapsed onto the bed, skin against skin, friction and heat. Peyton kissed me like he was trying to breathe for me. He claimed me. Owned me. Devoured me.
“Lube… in the drawer…” I gasped, desperate for him to fill me. I needed that connection. I needed to know that we still fit, that my body was still home to him.
Peyton didn’t make me wait. He prepped me quickly, his fingers rough and impatient, just the way I needed them to be. When he lined himself up and pushed in, I cried out, the sensation so intense it bordered on pain.
“Mine,” Peyton growled in my ear, his hips snapping forward. “You are mine, Dalton. Say it.”
“Yours,” I sobbed, clutching the sheets. “I’m yours.”
For a moment, the world narrowed down to this—the friction, the sweat, the sound of our breathing. I could pretend that nothing else mattered. I could pretend that the Claybourne legacy didn’t exist, that omegas didn’t exist, that it was just us.
But even as I fell over the edge, spilling my release onto my stomach, a stray thought intruded. An image of the omega from the diner—the one with the shy smile and the sad eyes.
I pushed it away, guilt spiking through the pleasure.
Focus on Peyton. Only Peyton.
“Knot me, alpha,” I begged, needing that final seal. Needing him to lock us together so tightly that nothing could tear us apart.
“Anything for you,” Peyton whispered, his knot swelling inside me. “Anything.”
As the knot took hold, grounding me, I closed my eyes and held on for dear life. I was back. I was safe. But I wondered if love was enough.