Chapter 2 Dominic
Dominic
Standing in the home office with my hands clasped behind my back, I feel more like a personal guard than the son and heir of Richard Hale, CEO of Hale Industries.
Amos stands beside me in the same position, both of us waiting while our father paces behind his massive mahogany desk.
The office reeks of expensive cigars and aged whiskey, scents that have become synonymous with lectures and disappointment over the years.
"The quarterly report was a disaster," Father growls, his voice clipped with barely restrained fury. "How you managed to let an error like that slip through is beyond me. Do you have any idea how that makes us look to the board?"
I bite back the response sitting on my tongue.
The error was caught immediately, corrected within hours, and the employee responsible was dismissed before the end of the business day.
We handled it exactly as we should have, quickly and efficiently, but Father doesn't care about that.
He cares about the fact that it happened at all, that something under our watch went wrong, even briefly.
Anything that threatens Hale Industries' image is a problem in his book.
Still, I have to state my case. "The mistake was corrected," I tell him, keeping my tone professionally flat. "The employee has been terminated, and we've implemented additional checks to ensure it doesn't happen again."
"That's not the point!" Father stops pacing and turns to face us, his eyes devoid of any possible warmth.
"The point is that it happened in the first place.
You're supposed to be better than this, Dominic.
You're supposed to be ready to take over this company, and yet you can't even manage a simple quarterly report without embarrassing me. "
My jaw clenches, the muscle ticking as I fight to keep my expression neutral.
The instinct to defend myself, to point out that the mistake wasn't mine and that we handled it perfectly, wars with learned behavior.
Speaking back only makes things worse. Fighting only gives him more ammunition to use against us later.
Beside me, Amos shifts slightly. His hands unclasp, and then I feel his fingers brush against mine.
It's subtle, barely noticeable to anyone not paying attention, but the touch pulls me back from the edge of the anger threatening to ruin me.
His hand slides into mine, and some of the tension bleeding through my shoulders eases.
I let out a slow breath through my nose, focusing on the feeling of Amos' palm pressed against mine rather than the words coming out of Father's mouth.
The desk phone rings, cutting through the tirade. Father glares at it for a moment before snatching up the receiver. "What?"
There's a pause while whoever is on the other end speaks. Father's expression shifts, the anger melting into something almost pleased. He nods a few times, murmurs something I can't hear, and then hangs up.
"The dynamics of this house are about to change," Father tells us, straightening his tie and moving around the desk. "I've chosen an Omega. She'll be living here from now on, along with her son."
The words hit like a slap.
An Omega. Here. In this house.
In my house.
I stare at Father, waiting for him to elaborate, to explain when this happened and why this is the first we're hearing about it. Amos' hand tightens around mine, the only indication that he's just as blindsided as I am.
"You're just telling us this now?" I ask, my voice dangerously low, a sliver of Alpha bark bleeding into the question.
Father's lip pulls up in a dangerous snarl, his eyes flashing with warning.
"I'm telling you now because they've just arrived," he says, adjusting his cufflinks like this is a perfectly normal conversation.
"You'll meet them downstairs in a moment.
I expect you both to be respectful and welcoming. They're part of this family now."
Fury rises in my chest. Five seconds ago I was worthless, dirt on his shoe because he decided I couldn't do my job properly. Now I'm supposed to greet his new Omega without question? No discussion, no warning, just a phone call and a command to play happy family?
"Her son," I repeat, the words tasting bitter. "You're telling me we have a new stepbrother?"
"Technically, yes," Father says, already moving toward the door. "I haven't married his mother yet, though the distinction hardly matters. Collect yourselves and meet me in the main hall. I won't tolerate rudeness from either of you."
He walks out without another word, leaving Amos and me standing in the suffocating silence of his office.
The moment the door clicks shut, I move. My hands are on Amos before he can react, spinning him and pressing him back against the door. The sound echoes through the room, Amos' breath hitching as my hand wraps around his throat.
I kiss him hard, all teeth and desperation and rage that has nowhere else to go.
Amos melts against me immediately, his body going pliant the way it always does when I take control.
His hands come up to grip my shirt, holding on as I pour every ounce of frustration into the kiss.
When his fingers brush across the bond mark seared into my chest, the anger morphs into something else entirely.
If we had the time, I would fuck him right here in this office, Father be damned.
The public thinks we're related. Half-siblings by blood, sharing a father, which is exactly the lie Father encourages because it keeps us controllable.
The truth is simpler and more dangerous: Amos is my first stepmother's son, my best friend, my lover, and my bonded mate.
The only man both strong enough and reckless enough to pull me back when I see red.
I force myself to pull back. We're both breathing hard, Amos' lips reddened and his eyes dark with want, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth that makes me want to throw him over the desk.
"You can ruin me later," Amos purrs, his voice coming out rough. "It seems we have a little brother to meet."
"That's not our brother," I growl, my hand still loose around his throat. "It's someone Father dragged in for a reason, and I'm going to find out what that reason is."
Amos tilts his head, the smirk widening. "You nearly killed our father just now. I could feel it."
"I know." The admission comes easier with Amos than it would with anyone else. He knows what Father does to us and the rage that simmers just beneath my carefully controlled surface. "That's why you're here. You keep me from doing something I can't take back."
"Most of the time," Amos corrects, before leaning in to kiss me again.
This one is slower. A reminder that we're in this together. His tongue slides against mine and I press closer, pinning him more firmly against the door. My mind races ahead to what I want to do to him later, all the ways I'm going to take him apart until he's boneless and spent.
But first we have to deal with whatever Father has dragged into our lives.
I force myself to step back. Amos straightens his shirt and runs a hand through his hair as I adjust my tie.
"Tonight," I promise, my voice low enough that only he can hear. "Let's go see what we're dealing with, first."
We leave the office together, moving through the hallways of this cold, lifeless house.
The only plan I had for this evening was getting Amos home and working out the aggression he spent all afternoon building in me, throwing those smirks at me from across the conference table while I tried to present financials to the board.
Apparently, plans change.
Halfway down the hallway leading to the main entrance, I catch scents that stop me cold. My steps slow, and beside me, Amos stiffens.
The woman's scent is first. It’s artificial, masked by the kind of perfume that's trying too hard to cover up what's underneath. Desperation and ambition wrapped in expensive bottles. My lip curls. And then there's the other one.
Father didn't mention our new stepbrother was an Omega.
The scent hits me square in the chest, a mixture of rich coconut and warm wood, nothing like the synthetic garbage rolling off the woman.
This is real and natural and so arresting that my mouth actually waters.
Every Alpha instinct I possess roars to life, demanding I find the source immediately.
I stop walking entirely, my hand shooting out to catch Amos' arm.
"Dom?" Amos murmurs, one brow raised.
I don't answer. I can't. The scent winds through the air and wraps around me, calling to something I keep on a very short leash. I breathe through it carefully, forcing my instincts back down, and then I keep walking.
We round the corner into the main hall, finding Father standing near the entrance, his hand on the arm of the woman.
She’s dressed expensively, something calculating sitting behind her smile.
This isn't a woman who fell in love with my father.
This is a woman who saw an opportunity and moved on it without hesitation.
I recognize the type because I live with the type.
Standing beside her, looking entirely out of place, is an Omega.
Young, mid-twenties at most. Dark curly hair falling around his shoulders, wide brown eyes currently fixed carefully on the middle distance.
He's wearing a restaurant apron stained with grease, looking like he was pulled from a shift rather than prepared for any of this.
Exhaustion is written into every line of his body, but underneath that, underneath the careful blankness he's wearing like armor, there is fear.
And he smells absolutely devastating.
I fully step into the room, Amos close behind me, and watch the Omega's head snap up. I watch the exact moment he registers what we are, his pupils blowing wide, his lips parting slightly, a flush crawling up his neck before he catches it and clamps down.