17. Tarquin
17
TARQUIN
I only have myself to blame when I hear it—the unmistakable sound of a purr. An omega’s purr. Her purr. I freeze, knowing that eavesdropping on this interaction would come back to bite me in the arse. Oh, but did it.
Fucking Tristan.
I should’ve known. Half of me admires his pretence, giving her exactly what she needs here, but the other half is furious. But, again, I only have myself to blame. I grew up with Tristan playing these games, sliding into the person he thinks you want him to be in that moment. He can change on a dime; he is a master manipulator. An actor and con man of the highest regard.
I can’t move as her purr winds around me, constricting my chest until I can barely breathe.
She’s purring for him.
My jaw clenches so hard I fear my teeth will crack.
I force myself to walk away, which is what I should’ve done in the first place, each step requiring more effort than the last. The purr follows me, echoing in my ears even as I descend the stairs. It mingles with other sounds now—her moans, his guttural responses. They’re not trying to be quiet. Why would they? This is what I arranged, after all. What I demanded.
The irony isn’t lost on me. I threw her at him in anger, and now she’s giving him the very thing I’ve wanted since I first saw her on Rob’s video.
The question remains, is she doing this to get back at me, or because Tristan is bringing it out in her?
I storm into my office and slam the door hard. My hands are shaking with a rage I haven’t felt before.
That purr. That fucking purr.
I pour myself a whiskey from the same bottle she drank from. I throw the liquid back, welcoming the burn as it matches the fire in my chest. Closing my eyes, I imagine it. Synthia riding Tristan, head thrown back, that beautiful throat vibrating with pleasure as he takes what should have been mine.
The glass shatters in my grip, whiskey and blood mingling as shards embed in my palm. I barely notice the pain.
“Trouble in paradise?”
I don’t need to turn to know it’s Declan leaning against the doorframe, his scent giving him away before his voice does. He’s enjoying this—my discomfort, my fury.
“Get out,” I growl.
He steps in instead, closing the door behind him. “She’s really something, isn’t she? Our little omega.”
“She’s not ours,” I snap, plucking glass from my palm with methodical precision. “She’s a service we’ve purchased.”
Declan laughs, the sound echoing through the room like a taunt. “You might want to remind Tristan of that. He seems to be getting a good return on your investment.”
The one-liner stabs at me, and I wrench another shard from my skin. “Is there a point to this visit?”
“Just checking in,” Declan says, shrugging with indifference. “You seemed a little extra last night.”
“I know what I’m doing,” I grit out. “And I’m being extra? I know what you asked her to do earlier.”
“Do you now?” Declan muses.
“Fuck off,” I say, because I can’t think of anything else to convey how much I want him gone.
I wrap my hand in my handkerchief, ignoring the sting as I tie it tight to stop the flow.
He chuckles and turns to leave, pausing at the door just long enough for maximum effect. “She’s already picked her favourite, Tarquin.”
The words strike harder than intended, and Declan fucking knows it.
“Besides. What if she did this for you? To teach you a lesson?” His eyes dance with amusement as he watches me process that possibility.
My silence is enough for him to continue his gloating.
“I love it,” he says with a wicked grin. “She’s got your number already.”
My fist clenches around the bloody cloth as I consider what Synthia might be doing.
“Get out and do not ask her to engage in your self-harming. That is outside the realm of her role here.”
“Is it? That’s a shame. I thought she was here for whatever sexual fantasies we have.”
“Not that.”
“I can’t exactly do it myself, now can I? I’m not that co-ordinated. So unless you’d like to take over, while she is here, Synthia will take part in my ritual whether she wants to or not. I hit a high that has never been achieved thus far. I’m not letting that opportunity slip through my fingers again.”
With two strides forward, I grab Declan by the collar, slamming him against the wall with enough force to knock the breath from him. The bloody handkerchief falls to the floor as I press my forearm against his throat.
“Listen to me carefully,” I say, my voice dangerously low. “That woman upstairs is not your personal therapist. She’s not here to enable your self-destruction.”
Declan’s eyes flash, not with fear but with defiance. “Don’t pretend this is about her wellbeing,” he chokes out. “This is about you wanting her all to yourself.”
“This is about maintaining control,” I snarl. “Something you seem incapable of grasping.”
He laughs, the sound strained against the pressure of my arm. “Control? Is that what you call throwing her at Tristan in a jealous rage? Very controlled, Tarq.”
I release him abruptly, stepping back. Blood drips from my hand onto the polished floor, vivid red against dark wood.
“Your envy is showing,” Declan says, rubbing his throat. “How many more sins shall we go through over this omega?”
“Find another way to process your demons.”
His expression darkens. “You don’t get to decide what I need.”
“As your prime, that’s exactly what I get to do.”
We stare at each other, the tension crackling between us like a live wire. I know I’m being an arsehole. But the question is, will he back down or not?
Declan’s jaw works, a muscle ticking beneath his skin. “You’ve never interfered before.”
“I’ve never needed to,” I say, my voice cold. “But you’re crossing lines, Declan. Even for you.”
He steps closer, his eyes narrowing. “What is it about her that’s got you so worked up? Is it really the purr? Or is it the way she looks at you, like she can see right through your bullshit? Or is it simply that she’s the first omega who doesn’t immediately roll over for the great Sir Tarquin Brayfield?”
My hand throbs, blood seeping through my fingers as I clench my fist. “You’re treading on dangerous ground.”
“I’ve lived on dangerous ground my entire life,” he counters. “But you... this is new territory for you, isn’t it? Not being in complete control?”
I give myself a headache my jaw is clenched so tight.
Declan notices my reaction and smiles knowingly. “She’s been here less than forty-eight hours, and she’s already divided the pack. Impressive.”
“The pack is not divided,” I growl.
“No?” He raises an eyebrow. “Then why are you down here bleeding while Tristan is upstairs, making her purr like a contented omega? Where’s your famous control now?”
I move faster than he can react, grabbing him by the throat again and slamming him against the bookshelf. Several leather-bound volumes crash to the floor as I lean in close.
“I will say this once more,” I breathe, my voice barely audible. “You will not ask her to whip you again. Find another outlet. This is not a request.”
Declan’s eyes flash with a mixture of rebellion and something deeper—hurt, perhaps.
“Fine,” he says as I release him. “But you need to sort yourself out, Tarquin. This omega has you losing your grip, and we both know what happens when you lose control.”
He straightens his shirt and walks out, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the persistent, maddening echo of Synthia’s purr still resonating in my mind.
I sink into my chair, slamming my injured hand, palm down on the desk to feel the pain. Blood seeps onto the desk blotter. The physical pain is nothing compared to the turmoil inside me. I’ve spent years building walls around myself, creating systems and structures to maintain perfect control. Now this omega has walked in and disrupted everything in just over a day.
The whiskey bottle still sits on my desk. I reach for it with my good hand and take a long pull straight from the bottle, just as she did.
I lower the bottle, heat spreading through my chest as the whiskey burns down my throat. The taste of her lingers on the rim—an intimacy I hadn’t anticipated. I stare at the bloodstained handkerchief on the floor, my mind racing with thoughts I can’t seem to control.
The house is quiet, save for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. I wonder what’s happening upstairs. Is she curled against Tristan’s chest, satisfied and content? Is he whispering those sweet nothings he’s so good at? The thought makes my blood boil at his manipulation of her.
Sitting back, I contemplate this. That is why she purred for him. He gave her everything she probably feels like she needs after being thrown into this lion’s den with me and Declan, for fuck’s sake. I groan and shake my head. Of course he did. It’s what Tristan does. He finds the weak spots and fills them. He knows the vulnerabilities, and he adapts to give comfort and security.
I stand abruptly, needing air. The walls of my office suddenly feel confining, the scent of her lingering everywhere. I stride to the French doors and throw them open, stepping out onto the patio. The warm morning air hits my face, clearing my head slightly.
The grounds stretch before me, meticulously maintained gardens leading to the tree line in the distance. Everything in its place, controlled, ordered—just as I like it. Just as I need it to be.
But control is slipping through my fingers like sand, and I’m not sure I can stop it.