Chapter 14
BECKETT
Beckett left the duch with Jack and strode off to Marl’s office.
It was time for him to get back to work.
Even when Jack was home and he and Beckett fucked the night away, he was on duty the next morning without fail.
And yes, last night he’d been servicing his omega—Jack’s omega, he corrected with a sigh—but he was still furious that he’d rested this late into the day. Or at all.
He shouldn’t have let Jack put him in his bed.
If his omega—the duch, godsdammit—if the duch hadn’t woken him up with his peculiar behaviour, first launching himself into Beckett’s arms and clinging to him as if he was clinging to a raft in the wide-open sea, then running off the moment Beckett mentioned shagging, Beckett could well have slept the whole day and into tomorrow.
He rapped lightly on the door of Marl’s office and waited for Marl’s firm, “Enter,” before he went in.
Marl looked up from one of his ledgers, peering over the edge of his half-moon spectacles. His iron-grey brows lifted when he saw Beckett. “Feeling up to work, are you?”
Beckett straightened his shoulders. “Yes.”
“Very well.”
Thankfully, he didn’t try to talk to Beckett about it. Just gave him his orders and sent him off.
The same couldn’t be said for his fellow footmen.
“The little duch, eh?” Garvey said. “Bet he’s a wild animal in bed.”
He was, but not the way Garvey was suggesting with his big, stupid leer.
The duch was the kind of wild you had to tame to your hand, be patient with, stroke right. Beckett grunted, hoping Garvey would leave it at that.
Since Garvey was a right tosspot, though, he didn’t. “Marl shoulda given us betas a pop at him, in my opinion.”
They were in one of the upper chambers, Beckett and Garvey heaving the furniture about while the maids danced around dusting and polishing every last inch of the room and its contents.
Beckett dropped his end of the heavy chest they were carrying and straightened slowly, eyes locked on Garvey. “You what?”
“Not a one on the estate other than Marl or Vickers wouldn’t have given the duch what he needs.
Fuck, even Magda woulda tossed her hat in the ring, I reckon.
Couldn’t give him a knot, I s’pose, though you could put something else up there to keep him quiet, if you know what I mean.
And you shoulda heard Dunn at breakfast. Moaning about how he didn’t even get a chance, and him an alpha with a knot right ready to go. ”
Something in the air must have tipped Garvey off. He set his end of the chest down and looked up at Beckett warily.
The world fell away. “Say that again.” All Beckett saw was Garvey’s face, Garvey’s fists rising cautiously and feet shifting on the gleaming wooden floor as he braced himself into a fighting stance.
“Don’t think I will, actually,” Garvey said.
“That’s right. You won’t. I ever hear you talking nasty shit about my—” he bit his words off with a snap, “—about His Grace’s husband, and it’ll be the last time anyone understands a fuckin’ word you say. I’ll knock your fuckin’ teeth down your noise hole and watch while you choke on ’em.”
“Beckett,” Garvey said, sounding shocked.
Beckett could understand why. They were friends. They’d been friends for years. Beckett gave his head a sharp shake and growled, but he couldn’t make himself stand down.
Garvey stayed very still even though he clearly wanted to back away. “Are you in rut?” he said, eyes wide.
“No,” Beckett said automatically, and then, “Fuck. Yes. Ah, fuck.”
He’d been telling himself that the twinges and flares of need twisting at the base of his spine, grinding in his gut, sending out tendrils of sensation into his groin and down his thighs, were the aftershocks of the night that he’d spent with the duch.
No. He’d tipped on over into a rut.
“All right, don’t worry about it,” Garvey said. “I’ll tell Marl. No one expected you to show your face today anyway.”
“I can do my job,” Beckett snarled.
“Yeah. Yeah. ‘Course you can.” Garvey lowered his fists and held his hands at his sides, palms open. “No argument here, mate.”
“Sorry,” Beckett managed to force out.
Garvey ducked his head in acknowledgement. “Why don’t you…?” He paused uncertainly. “Uh. Why don’t you go and find the duch to help you out? Assuming he’s still, uh. Receptive?”
Because while Beckett would be called upon to service the duch and prevent his mind or body breaking under the strain of an unattended heat, it didn’t go both ways. This was just a rut.
Beckett was just a servant.
Ruts were about want. Heats were about need.
It wasn’t the same.
No other alpha at Avendene, in other words Vickers or Dunn, would think for a second that the duch was an option if they were to go into rut.
Vickers had his wife. Dunn would go into the village, or maybe sweet-talk one of the stable lads or maids.
Or else they’d shut themselves up for a particularly nasty couple of days that would have them howling, but wouldn’t kill them.
Beckett had options, too. Any number of his fellow servants would be happy to help him out.
If it had to be an omega, then he could go into the village or the nearest town and find himself one.
No. Neither of those were an option. Not even for a moment. No other omega would do.
None but his omega, which…fuck. That was how he thought of the duch now.
For now, he told himself firmly.
When all this was done, he’d draw the appropriate lines between them. Servant and master. Regardless of how wrong it felt, to think of his little omega as master.
Wrong enough that fire licked up his spine and his muscles tensed.
Gods. He was going to have to do it, wasn’t he? Hunt the duch down and—
No. He’d fuck it out with Jack.
Jack would like it.
Beckett would fight him, and Jack would like it.
He wouldn’t let Beckett inside him, though. Wouldn’t welcome him in, like the duch did.
But maybe…they’d done all sorts before. Didn’t need a hole. Thighs would do it. Or buttocks. And Jack? Oh, he had an arse on him, that man. Round and tight and muscled. Yeah. Yes. Bit of effort and Beckett could get him on his belly, hold him down, and slot his cock—
Beckett heard his own breath rasping in his ears, and realised that he was shifting from foot to foot as he imagined it.
No. He was better than this. He wasn’t one of those mindless alphas who made their dick everyone else’s problem.
He had to be better.
He calmed his breathing, straightened his shoulders and forced them down. Forced himself to relax.
To give the show of it, at least.
Garvey had slunk off at some point while Beckett was fantasising about Jack’s arse. Run off to Marl to dob him in, hadn’t he? It was bad enough Marl had to come and get him to service the duch last night. He wasn’t about to let the old man try and talk to him about his rut.
Turning on his heel, he set off at a purposeful yet controlled clip for Jack’s study.
Maybe the duch was still there.
Maybe the duch was still there and in a similar state. It would simplify things. Beckett would be the one doing a favour. He’d carry the duch upstairs, throw him on Jack’s bed, drag Jack down with them, and he’d get to work.
And if the duch wasn’t there, he’d drag Jack upstairs, throw him down on Jack’s bed, and he’d get to work.
He’d forgotten about the suppressants.
He didn’t even knock on the study door before barging on in. The duch wasn’t there, and Jack was—
“Shit.” Beckett lunged across the room to where Jack was slumped in the chair behind his desk. His head lolled awkwardly to one side and his arms hung limp.
Beckett pressed shaking fingers to the side of Jack’s throat. He looked as if he was—no. He was fine.
He was fine.
He was not fine. But he wasn’t dead, and that was all that mattered to Beckett.
He gently cupped the back of Jack’s head, gripped a shoulder, and eased him up from that horrible, slack-limbed lolling he’d been doing. He smoothed Jack’s hair back.
Gods, how he loved this man.
He’d tried not to. He’d scolded himself whenever the stupid word so much as drifted into his mind.
Hadn’t done any good.
He loved him.
And he wasn’t going to lose him.
Jack’s forehead was burning hot and his skin felt tight and dry. His chest rose and fell rapidly. The pulse tapping at Beckett’s fingertips was far too fast.
This was the duch’s fault.
Jack had taken those fucking suppressants because of the duch. There was a reason they were illegal. Fuck’s sake.
Beckett strode over to the bell pull and yanked it. He tore it clean off the hook. He dropped the thing carelessly to the floor as he rushed back over to Jack. A knock came at the door and Beckett yelled over his shoulder, “Come in.”
Marl opened the door, no doubt outraged that Beckett was shouting orders like he was in charge here, but…well.
He was in charge.
If Marl had a problem, he could take it up with Beckett later.
“Call the physician,” Beckett snapped. “And get Hap in here. I need him to help me lift Jack. He’s a deadweight. I need cool water and cloths. Well? What are you standing about for? Get on with it!”
Instead of doing as he was told, Marl hurried over to stare down into Jack’s pallid face. “Oh, you stupid boy,” he said. It took a second for Beckett to realise he was talking to Jack, not Beckett. “Suppressants?” Now he was talking to Beckett.
Beckett grunted.
“Can’t get the physician then,” Marl said.
“What d’you mean? He needs one!”
Marl’s mouth tightened grimly. “A physician can’t do a damn thing for him,” he said, then put out a hand to steady Beckett when Beckett wobbled on his feet.
“I didn’t mean it like that. I meant there’s nothing a physician can do now that we can’t.
We’ll take care of him, lad.” He gripped Beckett’s shoulders and squeezed tightly, obliging Beckett to drag his gaze from Jack to Marl. “We’ll take care of him.”