Chapter 10
ten
. . .
The bathroom mirror reflected exactly what I expected: a flushed, disheveled omega who looked like he'd just been thoroughly ravished against a tree.
Because I had been. The evidence was written all over me—swollen lips, hair sticking up where Stefano's fingers had gripped it, and two very visibly sensitive nipples that still tingled from his attention.
"Traitor," I muttered to my reflection, watching my face burn even redder. "This is why we can't have nice things."
I turned the shower as hot as it would go, peeling off my sleep clothes with the grim efficiency of someone disposing of crime scene evidence.
My tiny shorts were a lost cause, the fabric sticky with slick and precum.
Just the memory of Stefano's mouth on me—the way he'd commanded me to kiss him back, how he'd sucked on my nipples while Marco and Matteo watched—sent another treacherous pulse of heat through my body.
"Stop that," I hissed at my traitorous cock, which was already hardening again despite the embarrassment still burning through me. "We've been humiliated enough for one morning, thanks."
Under the scalding spray, I scrubbed every inch of my skin like I could somehow erase the memory of alpha hands and mouths.
It didn't work. Six months of trying to forget what they'd done to me in that forest hadn't worked either.
If anything, the real thing had only proven how pathetically inadequate my memories were.
No fantasy could capture the overwhelming reality of Stefano's presence, the heat of his body against mine, the way his voice alone could make me weak at the knees.
I leaned against the shower wall, letting my head fall back against the tiles. "I'm so fucked," I whispered to the empty bathroom. "So completely, utterly fucked."
My hand moved down my stomach of its own accord, fingers wrapping around my aching length.
One stroke, two, and I was biting my lip to keep from making sounds Aunt Akiko might hear through the door.
Images flashed behind my closed eyelids—Stefano's eyes going black with desire, the way his lips had curved around my nipple, Marco's knowing smirk as he watched me fall apart.
I came embarrassingly quickly, my release washing down the drain along with whatever remained of my dignity.
Shame immediately followed the brief moment of pleasure.
This wasn't just about sex anymore—it was about control.
They knew exactly what they were doing by setting up camp right outside my fence.
This was a siege, and they were playing the long game.
By the time I made it downstairs, I'd armored myself in layers—a loose sweater over a t-shirt, jeans that weren't remotely formfitting, even socks despite the warming air.
If I could have justified a scarf without raising questions, I would have worn one to hide the ghost-feeling of Stefano's teeth on my neck.
"There you are, Leo-kun!" Aunt Akiko smiled as I entered the kitchen. "I was beginning to think you'd drowned in there."
"Just thorough," I muttered, sliding into my chair at the table. "Very… dirty. From the exercise."
She placed a reheated plate in front of me—rice, grilled fish, miso soup, and pickles. Traditional Japanese breakfast that somehow always tasted like home despite my complicated relationship with my heritage.
"You must be hungry after all that… exercise," she said, eyes twinkling with amusement that made me wonder exactly how much she'd figured out.
I focused intently on my food, willing the heat in my cheeks to subside. "Starving," I admitted, realizing I actually was ravenous. Apparently, being sexually tormented by alphas burned a lot of calories.
"Where's Uncle Jiro?" I asked between bites, trying to sound casual.
"Oh, he's outside chatting with the alphas," Aunt Akiko replied, refilling my teacup. "Those nice young men arrived early this morning to set up camp. Stefano-san said something about needing closer security positioning after what happened in the forest."
I nearly choked on my rice. "They're camping literally outside our fence. That's not a security position; it's a stalking operation."
Aunt Akiko waved dismissively. "Don't be dramatic, Leo-kun. They're doing their job. And they've been very helpful already—Marco-san is helping Jiro-san with the garden work."
"Of course he is," I muttered darkly. "Nothing says 'professional security detail' like gardening tips and glamping equipment."
I finished my breakfast quickly, torn between wanting to hide in my room forever and needing to see exactly what kind of alpha invasion was happening in our yard. Curiosity won out over self-preservation—a recurring theme in my life that had yet to work in my favor.
"I'm going to check on Uncle Jiro," I announced, standing abruptly. "Make sure he hasn't been brainwashed into joining some alpha cult."
"Such imagination," Aunt Akiko chuckled. "While you're out there, could you tell Matteo-san I appreciate his help with the laundry? He offered to hang it for me."
"The laundry?" I repeated, a sense of dread washing over me. "What laundry, specifically?"
"Just the usual," she said innocently. "Sheets, towels, your clothes…"
"My clothes?" My voice rose to a pitch that probably only dogs could hear. "As in, my underwear? My personal items?"
"Well, yes, everything that was in the hamper," she confirmed, looking puzzled by my horror. "Is that a problem? He was very insistent on helping."
Of course he was. Why pass up an opportunity to handle my intimate items while establishing dominance over my territory?
"No problem at all," I said through gritted teeth. "Totally normal for alpha strangers to do my laundry. Nothing weird about that. Not intrusive or boundary-crossing at all."
I stalked toward the door, already plotting elaborate revenge scenarios involving itching powder and their expensive camping gear.
The moment I stepped outside, I spotted Uncle Jiro in the vegetable garden with Marco kneeling beside him, both of them deeply engaged in what appeared to be an intense discussion about tomato staking techniques.
Marco looked up immediately, his dark eyes finding mine with predatory precision. His smile widened, revealing perfect teeth that made something flutter traitorously in my chest.
"Little prince!" he called cheerfully. "Just in time to help with the garden work. Your uncle has been teaching me about Japanese growing techniques."
Uncle Jiro beamed with obvious pleasure. "Marco-san knows so much about Italian heirloom varieties! We're going to try growing some San Marzano tomatoes next season."
"Fascinating," I said flatly. "Nothing says 'highly trained security professional' like extensive knowledge of nightshade cultivation."
Rather than being offended, Marco laughed—a rich sound that seemed to vibrate through the air between us.
"Protection takes many forms, little prince.
Sometimes it's physical security…" His eyes deliberately dropped to my mouth, lingering there just long enough to make heat rise to my face.
"And sometimes it's ensuring the people you care about have the best possible tomatoes. "
Uncle Jiro, completely oblivious to the subtext, nodded enthusiastically. "He's already fixed that support system that kept collapsing. Such strong hands, this one!"
Strong hands. Right. I have firsthand experience with exactly how strong those hands are.
Before I could formulate a suitably sarcastic response, movement on the clothesline caught my eye.
Matteo was methodically hanging laundry, his movements precise and efficient as he carefully clipped each item to the line.
With growing horror, I realized he was handling my underwear—not just any underwear, but the collection of soft cotton briefs I wore when not expecting anyone to see them.
He looked up, those amber eyes finding mine with that unnerving intensity that always made me feel completely exposed. He held up a pair of my blue briefs, giving them a small shake before carefully clipping them to the line.
"These should dry quickly in this sun," he said casually, as if discussing the weather rather than handling my most intimate clothing. "Cotton breathes well."
My face burned hot enough to power a small city. "What the actual fuck?" I hissed, storming over to the clothesline. "You can't just—that's my—why are you touching my underwear?"
"Helping Akiko-san," he replied simply, reaching into the laundry basket for another pair—these ones with ridiculous cartoon cats that had been a joke gift from Aunt Akiko. "She mentioned her arthritis was bothering her today."
"That doesn't mean you get to fondle my personal items!" I protested, trying to snatch the cat underwear from his hands. He held them just out of reach, a flicker of amusement crossing his usually stoic features.
"I'm not fondling," he corrected, carefully clipping the cat briefs to the line with infuriating precision. "I'm organizing. You have many pairs. Very colorful."
"Oh my God," I groaned, covering my face with my hands. "Just kill me now. Put me out of my misery. One quick snap of the neck is all it would take."
"Death by underwear embarrassment," a familiar voice drawled behind me. "Not the most dignified end for the heir to the Yamamoto name."
I turned slowly, already knowing who I'd find. Stefano sat in one of our garden chairs like it was a throne, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, the picture of casual dominance. His cobalt eyes tracked my every movement, amusement dancing in their depths.
"Technically, death would be the end of the embarrassment," I pointed out, crossing my arms defensively. "So really, it's a solution, not a problem."
His smile widened, showing teeth. "Always so quick with that clever mouth. I'm still savoring how it felt against mine this morning."