5. Declan
5
DECLAN
Slicing the blade through the flesh of my inner arm, the blood wells up. I hiss at the sting but shove it aside as I pick up the paintbrush. Dabbing it into the wound, I meticulously move it to the canvas.
“That is very unsanitary,” Tarquin’s voice says from the open doorway.
Concentrating, I purse my lips and glide the brush over the canvas in a sweeping, bold stroke. The crimson line is a perfect curve against the stark white backdrop. My blood, my art, my pain.
“Most creative endeavours worth pursuing aren’t sanitary,” I reply without looking up. “Look at sex. What do you want, Tarquin? I’m working.”
“I don’t like you hurting yourself.”
I smile. It’s sinister, but it’s a smile, nonetheless. “Aww, so sweet.”
“Fuck off,” he growls.
“Relax. It’s just for this one section. It’s the perfect colour. Or it will be when it dries.”
“You’re bleeding on the floor,” he observes.
I glance down at the droplets marking my path like morbid breadcrumbs. “I’ll clean it up later.”
“Your obsession with using your own blood as a medium is getting worse.” He moves closer, examining my latest work with clinical detachment. “You should speak to your psychologist about it.”
“Sacked her. She can fuck off with the rest of them,” I mutter, dipping my brush again. The cut is starting to clot, so I swipe my finger across it, reopening the wound. Fresh blood beads up, bright and vital.
Tarquin sighs, the sound heavy with resignation. “Make sure you get this cleaned up before tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“We have a house guest.”
I pause, mid-stroke. “Oh?” That gets my attention, as guests are usually prohibited from entering our pack territory. I look up at him, finally meeting his ice-blue gaze, which matches mine. We look very similar, unlike Tristan, who is the exact opposite. “Who?”
“An omega. She’ll be staying for a week.” Tarquin’s tone is deliberately casual, but I catch the subtle tension in his shoulders.
I set down my brush, suddenly more interested in this conversation than my artwork. Blood continues to well from the cut, but I ignore it. “Since when do you bring omegas home? Especially for a week?”
“Since I found one worth the investment.” He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and tosses it at me. “Cover that before you bleed out and ruin the hardwood.”
I catch the cloth one-handed and press it to my arm, my eyes never leaving his face. “Investment? That’s an interesting choice of words.”
“She works for the Walker Agency.”
“Ah.” Understanding dawns. “You’re paying for company. How desperate of you.”
Tarquin’s jaw tightens. “I’m paying for exclusivity .”
“For a week?” I laugh, the sound sharp and mocking. “What’s she costing you? Ten grand? Twenty?”
“A million.”
My eyebrows skyrocket. “You’re joking.”
“I never joke about money.” His expression remains impassive, but there’s something in his eyes—a glint of something primal and possessive.
“A million pounds for an escort? She must be spectacular.”
“She is.”
“And are you going to share?”
“If you clean this mess up.”
“What happens if you want her to stay longer than a week?”
“I won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“She is a pain in the arse. Not subservient, at all.”
“And that irritates you?” He’s such an idiot. He forgets who he is talking to.
“I find it challenging. She has a mouth on her.”
“So do most omegas,” I say with a smirk, pressing the handkerchief tighter against my arm. “That’s generally part of the appeal.”
Tarquin’s eyes narrow. “You know what I mean.”
“I do.” I stand, stepping carefully around the droplets of blood on the floor. “She talks back. Doesn’t immediately bend to your will. That must be frustrating for someone with your alpha tendencies.”
“You’re one to talk about tendencies,” he mutters. “Seen dear old dad lately?”
The rage flares briefly, but it settles when I dig the tip of my thumb into the cut. I ignore the provocation. Tarquin is in a mood, and it is best not to rise to his bait. He is looking for a fight, but it’s not me he wants to punch. I congratulate myself on this deduction of my prime alpha. All those therapy sessions must be paying off. At least they are good for something. Ridding me of my hatred and nightmarish childhood is not something it is very good at. “Does she have a name, this million-pound omega?”
“Synthia Fuller.”
“Synthia Fuller. Syn Full. Apt.”
The intensity of Tarquin’s gaze would have intimidated a lesser man, but I’ve lived with his cold fury for too long to be affected. “I’ll clean up my mess,” I say with a dismissive wave. “And I’ll behave when your expensive toy arrives.”
“She’s not a toy, Declan.”
“No?” I raise an eyebrow, my lips curling into a knowing smile. “Then what is she?”
Tarquin doesn’t answer immediately. His hesitation tells me more than words could. “A great fuck.”
“And you would know that how?”
“Rob showed me a video he took of her riding his cock. Impressive. I want to taste.”
“You mean you want to take her from Rob. When will you two grow the fuck up?”
“This isn’t about Rob,” he says, and I actually believe him. “This is a business arrangement, nothing more.”
I laugh, the sound echoing off the high ceilings of my studio. “And what if she wants to stay after the week? What then?”
“She knows this is a one-week deal.”
“Knowing and knowing are two very different things.”
“If she wants to stay, she will have to want. She will be delivered back to her home when the time is up.” He turns on his heel and strides out, leaving me to contemplate this extremely bizarre arrangement. The escort, I get. Who hasn’t fucked an omega and paid for it? But the cost of this one-week transaction is eye-watering. Not that he can’t afford it, but still. I’m sure he could have offered her less than that for a whole lot more.
“Well, SynFul, you had better be worth it, or we are going to have one very grumpy prime alpha on our hands.”
That would be amusing for all of a minute. My smile fades as I consider the reality of that. Tarquin’s wrath isn’t something to be tested. I hope for his sake, and ours, that he hasn’t overestimated the worth of this omega.
Walking to the bathroom adjoining my studio, I rinse the cut under cold water, watching the pink swirl down the drain. Tarquin’s sudden investment in this omega is intriguing—and completely out of character. He’s always been methodical about everything, including his sexual partners. Quick, efficient encounters that satisfy biological needs and nothing more.
I wrap a proper bandage around my arm and return to my canvas. The blood has already dried, darkening to a deep crimson that perfectly captures what I was trying to achieve. Pain made visible. It’s always been my most effective medium.
Cleaning up the drops of blood from the floor, I find myself curious about this Synthia Fuller. What could possibly make her worth a million pounds? The challenge she presents, perhaps? Tarquin has always been drawn to what he can’t immediately control so he can control it, bend it to his will.
I finish tidying my studio and head to my bedroom, my mind still puzzling over this unexpected development. Tomorrow promises to be interesting, at the very least.
Turning on the shower, I strip off my painting clothes, scruffy jeans and a black tee and dump them in the laundry basket before removing the bandage. As I step into the steaming shower, the cut on my arm stings under the hot water. I let the burning torrent cleanse me, watching the crimson swirl down the drain. The wound isn’t deep enough to need stitches, but it will leave another scar to join the collection, mapping my skin like a personal atlas of pain.
When I’m done, I turn the shower off and step out. I wrap a towel around my waist and wipe the condensation from the mirror, studying my reflection. Blue eyes stare back, cold and calculating like Tarquin’s, but with something darker lurking beneath. My black hair is slicked back from my face, water droplets trailing down my neck and chest.
A million pounds for an omega. The thought still intrigues me. I’ve known Tarquin for years and have been part of his pack since we were in our early twenties with our fellow pack mate Tristan. He doesn’t make frivolous decisions, especially about money. This Synthia must have got under his skin in a way I haven’t seen before. I’ve been waiting for it. We decided long ago to wait for the right omega to mate with, even if that meant waiting decades. At thirty-five, we are pushing that boundary hard, but maybe this challenging little omega with the smart mouth might change all that.
I smirk at my reflection. I’m in half a mind to see what all the fuss is about and look her up on the internet, but then again, I’m usually in half a mind anyway. Perhaps waiting for the surprise would be more enticing. Delayed gratification. I wonder if she knows she will be passed around this pack like a toy.
I trace the fresh cut on my arm, feeling the raised edges of the wound. The pain grounds me, keeps me tethered to reality when my mind wants to drift into darker places. My art requires sacrifice—blood for beauty, pain for creation. It’s the only way I know how to process the shadows that have followed me since childhood.
Tomorrow, Synthia Fuller will walk into our world, oblivious to the dynamics at play. One million pounds. The price tag hangs in my mind, tantalising and completely absurd. Whatever Tarquin saw in that video has captivated him completely. The thoughts of what she will do to earn this money make my cock stir. I need more information from Tarquin. Can I take liberties with her? Can I punish her? Can I slice her skin open and use her blood on my canvas? Questions. Questions.
Important fucking questions that he knows I need the answers to.
I pad into my bedroom, the towel still wrapped loosely around my waist. The room is spacious and minimalist—black, white, and steel, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the estate’s grounds and the manicured lawns.
Turning from the view, I don’t bother getting dressed as I leave my room and take the stairs two at a time to reach the bottom. Moving silently across the marble-floored entrance hall, I stop in front of Tarquin’s office door. It’s open, and he is staring at his phone, eyes narrowed.
“What?” he asks without looking up.
“Does she know?”
“Know what?” His gaze moves slowly up to mine, meeting it with a challenge.
“That she is going to have to earn that price tag.”
“She will find out when she gets here.”
I swallow and hold his gaze. “You didn’t tell her?”
“I could hardly blurt out our secrets on the side of the pavement now, could I?”
“Pavement?”
“Like I said, she is a pain in the arse.”
“I want?—”
“I know, and you will get it. She will figure it out in the coming moments, after the shock wears off, that this isn’t an endeavour where she gets to sit around here as lady of the manor.”
“Part of me hopes she does,” I murmur darkly.
He smirks, but it’s sinister. “Part of me wants to watch what you will do if she does. Go and take care of that before you put someone’s eye out.” He gestures vaguely.
I look down to see my cock raging beneath the towel. “How about a helping hand with that video?”
He hesitates for a second and then holds it out. I pause. Do I really want to see, or do I want to wait? Tarquin snorts softly. “You want to wait, don’t you? You want to edge yourself so that when you take her, she feels it for a week.”
“Is she beautiful?” I ask.
“Of course. Tiny, with long dark hair, blue eyes that hold a million promises, lips that will look good wrapped around my cock, and a purr that will make you lose what is left of your mind.”
I take an involuntary step forward. “A purr? You’ve heard it?”
He nods and holds up the phone. “Sure you don’t want to use it as porn? I have.”
I’m tempted. But I also know myself. I will become obsessed. I will build up this image of her in my mind, and reality will disappoint me.
I step back, shaking my head slowly. “I’ll wait.” The anticipation will be sweeter this way, the reality untainted by expectations. “But tell me this—does she know what she’s walking into? Three alphas, one omega?”
Tarquin’s lips curl into that cold smile I know too well. “She knows she’s coming to service me for a week. The rest...” He shrugs one shoulder. “Details.”
“And if she refuses?”
“For a million pounds?” He laughs, the sound sharp as broken glass. “She won’t refuse. There is something deeper and darker to her than meets the eye. She is desperate.”
“How do you know this?”
“She agreed to come here from a ten-minute encounter on the side of the road.”
“For a million pounds. I don’t think many people in general would refuse that. Doesn’t make her desperate. Makes her smart.”
“Perhaps.”
I’m not so sure. Even escorts have boundaries, lines they won’t cross. If this omega has the backbone to talk back to Tarquin, she might not be as pliable as he expects. The thought makes my blood heat—a challenging omega, one who won’t immediately submit. Breaking her would be exquisite.
“Last chance.” He holds up the phone.
Shaking my head, I turn away and leave without another word, the towel still barely clinging to my hips. As I climb the stairs back to my room, I wonder what Tristan will make of all this. He’s been away on business, due back tomorrow morning—just in time for our guest’s arrival.
Three alphas, one omega. A million pounds. The stage is set for something far more significant than Tarquin realises, and every instinct I have screams at me that she won’t be leaving once she sets foot behind those gates.