Chapter 22 Tristan
TRISTAN
I always wake up first. It’s just how I’m wired.
The rest of me is heavy, sunk into the mattress and cocooned in a tangle of bodies and sheets, but my mind is already working.
She’s right there, nestled between Owen and Freddie, Weller facing the door like he’s a bodyguard.
The first thing that hits me? Her scent.
Fuck, it’s perfect. Sweetness and sin, now all mixed up with the four of us.
I spent years picturing this, and now that it’s real, I’m so hard it’s almost painful.
The nest we put together last night is ridiculous.
Too many pillows, mattresses dragged together, every blanket we could find.
It shouldn’t feel this good, this right, in this house.
But it does. For the first time in years, I didn’t wake up miserable.
This must be what home is supposed to feel like.
I’ve never felt anything like it, and it’s not the place. It’s her.
Only one thing could make it better—getting a taste of her.
I let my gaze drift over her face, slack with sleep.
The dark circles under her eyes don’t lie.
She’s been running on fumes for years. Even dreaming, she still looks like she’s bracing for impact.
A part of me wants to smooth the worry from her brow, to promise her she’ll never have to run again.
The other, much larger part, wants to wake her up by eating her out.
Navigating this pile of limbs is a fucking nightmare. Owen’s got her locked in with both arms, like he thinks someone’s going to sneak in and take her. Freddie’s leg is knotted with hers, his face lost in her hair.
I push Owen’s arm aside, slow and steady.
He grunts, low and pissed off, but doesn’t wake up.
He just shifts enough to clear my path. Freddie mumbles something about pancakes and rolls over, yanking more blanket to his side.
Weller doesn’t move, but I catch the change in his breathing. He’s always listening.
I slide under the covers with all the stealth of a kid sneaking in after curfew. Her scent is a trail, getting stronger as I move closer, thick and dizzying. The bond thrums between us, still new, still raw—a constant awareness of her.
I pause at her hips, just hovering, my fingers ghosting over the waistband of her leggings. Is this too much? She’s asleep. But the fresh bite on my neck answers for me, the bond yanking at me like a hook buried deep.
Slowly, I start peeling her leggings down.
If she wants to stop me, she can. It’s Bianca.
She’ll stab me in the throat if she objects.
She doesn’t. Instead, she lifts her hips in her sleep, making it easier for me.
I pull the fabric down, inch by inch, and then I see she’s not wearing underwear.
Fuck. We should just ban her from ever wearing them. My cock throbs with hunger.
I’m the only one who hasn’t knotted her yet. Having her ass first was totally worth the sacrifice, but now all I can think about is this tight pussy locked around me, claiming me as thoroughly as I want to claim her.
I bury my face between her thighs and inhale. Pure sweetness. The first flick of my tongue nearly undoes me. I rut against the mattress, biting back a groan that would definitely wake these other fuckers up. Not in the mood to share.
She’s so wet already. Her scent is layered, though.
Beneath her sweetness, I taste someone else.
Weller. He must have been inside her last night at some point, and the proof of it is right here on my tongue.
The thought of him sneaking her while we were all sleeping should make me jealous.
Instead, it just makes me harder. He tastes good on her.
We taste good on her.
Even asleep, her hand finds my hair, twining through it and pulling me closer. The slight sting against my scalp sends a jolt straight to my cock. Well, who am I to deny my omega?
I lean in and run my tongue along her center. I groan against her, the sound muffled by her body. I think I might blow just from this.
“Fuck,” I whisper against her skin. “Prettiest pussy ever.”
I feast on her. There’s no other word for it. I lick and suck and kiss her like I’m possessed, which is the damn truth. Her thighs tremble on either side of my head, and she’s trying so hard to be quiet, these little gasps and whimpers escaping despite her best efforts.
She tastes like heaven and sin mixed together, sweet and salty and absolutely fucking addictive. I could do this for hours and would happily die here, suffocated between her thighs.
I part her folds with my thumbs, exposing the glistening pink flesh underneath before pushing my tongue inside her along with two fingers.
She gasps, her thighs falling open for me.
She’s giving herself up, and I love this side of her.
I slide my hands under her ass, lifting her so I can get my tongue even deeper.
She’d deny it, but she’s a natural submissive. A defiant little brat, but still. The way she yields when she finally trusts you enough—it’s like watching a fortress crumble.
The hot, wet feel of her against my mouth, the way she twitches when I hit just the right spot, the little sounds she tries to swallow.
The pleasure ricochets between us through the bond until my head spins. Forget food, water, air. Just let me die here.
Her breathing changes, growing ragged. She’s close, her thighs clamping tight.
“Tris,” she breathes, my name torn from her lips like a secret.
I double down, circling her clit ruthlessly, feeling her tense and shudder.
“That’s it,” I murmur, not really caring if she hears. “Give it to me, omega.”
Now she’s moving against my face, desperate, chasing the pleasure. I hold her there, not letting her get away.
Through the bond, I feel it when she tips over—a blinding rush that has me grinding against the mattress.
She comes with a soft, desperate cry, her body shaking, her grip in my hair brutal.
I don’t stop, licking her through every aftershock until she’s trembling and oversensitive, until she’s trying to squirm away from the intensity.
When her thighs finally go slack, I look up. She’s watching me with the blanket lifted slightly, her eyes heavy, cheeks stained pink, her hair a riot around her face.
This gorgeous creature is mine.
“Good morning,” I say, kissing her inner thigh. “Sleep well?”
She narrows her eyes at me, but there’s no bite to it. Just that spark—the challenge that’s always there between us, the one that makes me want to pin her down and make her surrender.
Before she can answer, the mattress dips. The others are waking up.
I plan to slide up her body, to ask if I can sink my painfully hard cock inside her, to beg if necessary, but—
“What the fuck?”
Bianca does not sound happy.
I emerge from under the blankets to find chaos.
She’s sitting up, staring at the handcuffs connecting her to Owen with an expression that promises violence.
Owen’s trying to look innocent and failing miserably.
Weller and Freddie are both awake now, watching with varying degrees of concern and amusement.
“Morning, Princess,” Owen says with that shit-eating grin of his.
“Don’t you ‘morning, Princess’ me.” She yanks on the handcuffs hard enough that Owen winces. “What the fuck is this?”
“Insurance,” he says simply.
“Against what?”
“You disappearing.”
She stares at him for a long moment, and I can actually see her cycling through emotions—disbelief, anger, more anger, a brief stop at murderous rage, before settling on cold fury.
“Take. Them. Off.”
“Can’t.” Owen shrugs with his good shoulder. “Lost the key.”
She is going to murder him. And honestly, I might help her. It’s a dick move, even for Owen.
“Owen.” Her voice is slightly terrifying. “I will remove your dick with my teeth if you don’t take these off right now.”
“Promises, promises.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. I’m not losing you again, Bianca.”
Her face softens before she catches herself. I see it, that flash of vulnerability, before the walls slam back up.
“You’re obnoxious, and I need to pee.”
“So pee.”
“You want to come to the bathroom with me?”
“Yes.”
“You’re insane.”
“About you? Yeah.”
She yanks on the handcuffs again, and this time Owen actually does wince. His shoulder’s fucked, and she knows it.
“Does it hurt?” she asks, and there’s genuine concern in her voice now.
“Only when you try to rip my arm off.”
She stops pulling immediately, guilt flashing across her face before she masks it.
“This is fucked up, even for you,” she tells him, but some of the heat has gone out of her voice.
“We’ll look for the key,” Weller says, already heading for Owen’s room with Freddie. He gives Owen a look that clearly says, We are going to talk about this later. “You two... figure it out.”
“While you’re at it,” I add, wiping my mouth and loving the way Bianca’s eyes find mine, “maybe grab some food for our girl? I already had breakfast in bed, but I imagine she could use some actual calories after that orgasm.”
Bianca’s face goes red. Fuck, I love that. The way she can go from deadly to embarrassed in a heartbeat. She grabs the nearest pillow and hurls it at my head. I catch it easily.
“Shut up, Tristan,” she mutters. “Alphas are so—”
The doorbell rings, and we all freeze.
“Who the hell is here at”—Freddie peeks his head out of Owen’s room and checks his watch—“seven a.m.?”
“Probably Montgomery,” I suggest, already pulling on pants.
I was enjoying this too much to be slapped in the face with real life.
But he does live on the property, and he’s always been a morning person.
“Or our fathers,” Weller adds grimly, returning to the room keyless. He tosses a small, empty black box onto the bed. “Found the handcuff box. No key.”
After what she told us last night, and the fact that I know he was involved in gifting her to the Havershams…
I don’t want to see my father unless it’s while I’m watching myself strangle him with my bare hands.
My father doesn’t just disapprove. He destroys what he can’t control.
And he cannot, and will never, control her.
If he so much as looks at her funny, I’m not sure I will be able to stop myself. The alpha in me is too close to the surface and ready to kill for her.
“Well, whoever it is can wait. I still have to pee.”
She drags Owen behind her, his face a mixture of smug satisfaction and pain.
“Owen,” she says as they reach the bathroom, “your punishment for the handcuffs is you don’t get to touch me. Keep your hands to yourself.”
He actually whines. “But—”
“I mean it.”
Ah. I love the sound of Owen not getting what he wants first thing in the morning. Serves him right for the handcuff stunt, even if I understand the impulse.
The doorbell rings again, more insistent this time. Weller’s jaw is working. None of us want to deal with the outside world right now. We just got her back.
“Let’s find out who it is,” he says, heading for the door.
I follow, my body still worked up with unsatisfied need, my mind still half-gone to the taste of her. The warmth of the nest vanishes, replaced by the familiar chill of a threat assessment. Weller moves with a purpose I recognize, the leader taking point. I fall into place behind him.
If it is my father, I’m not sure I can be held responsible for what happens next.