Chapter 4 #2
The pretty boy who immediately goes around to Toby's side. Who reaches out and ruffles Toby's hair with easy familiarity. Who stands too close, inside the bubble of personal space that should be mine.
"You sure you don't want me to come in with you?" Pretty Boy asks. His voice carries through the open window—warm and teasing. "I could meet the lions properly."
"Robin, no." Toby bats his hands away, but he's laughing. "You'll embarrass me."
Robin.
The roommate.
Who's a very attractive man. A very attractive man who's touching Toby, who lives with Toby, who bakes Toby cakes and drives a seventy-thousand-dollar car and looks like he stepped out of a fucking cologne advertisement.
"I'm not embarrassing! I'm delightful!" Robin opens the trunk, pulling out what looks like pastry boxes. Multiple pastry boxes. "Besides, I want to see if they're as hot as you said."
"I didn't say they were hot!"
"Tobes, you were practically purring about golden eyes and motorcycle rides." Robin hands Toby several boxes, then uses his free hand to fix Toby's collar. His fingers linger on Toby's neck, adjusting, smoothing. "You absolutely said they were hot."
My lion is going to kill him.
Pretty boy or not, expensive car or not, if he doesn't stop touching—
"They're coming in," Jason hisses, scrambling back from the window. "Everyone look casual. Look like we're working. Vaughn, put down the sandwich."
"I'm eating."
"Eat later. Boss, stop growling."
I wasn't aware I was growling. I make myself stop, unclenching my jaw, trying to force my expression into something that isn't murderous.
The door swings open.
Toby comes through first, balancing three pastry boxes, his face slightly flushed. Robin is right behind him with two more boxes, his eyes already scanning the room with obvious appreciation. His gaze slides over Jason, lingers on Vaughn, catalogues Silas and Ezra, and finally lands on me.
His smile sharpens into something knowing.
"Hi!" Toby spots Jason and relief crosses his face. "You're here. Good. We brought thank-you tarts."
"We?" Jason is looking between Toby and Robin with barely concealed glee.
"This is Robin, my roommate. He made everything and insisted on driving me because apparently I looked like, and I quote, 'death warmed over in a microwave' this morning."
"You got hardly any sleep," Robin says, setting his boxes on the workbench. He's still looking at me, still wearing that knowing smile. "And you must be Knox."
I don't respond. Can't, really, because my lion is having opinions about this man who smells like vanilla and butter and expensive cologne and has definitely been touching Toby today. Recently. Repeatedly.
"Oh my god, you really are lions," Robin continues, apparently unbothered by my silence. His eyes are bright with delight. "That's so hot. The whole motorcycle club predator thing? Very sexy. I totally get why Toby came home all—"
"ROBIN." Toby's face is crimson. "The tarts. Give them the tarts and get in the car."
"Fine, fine." Robin starts opening boxes with practiced efficiency. "Lemon tarts, brown butter cookies, eclairs, and I threw in some cream puffs because stress-baking is my love language and Toby was very stressed last night."
The boxes reveal rows of perfect pastries—golden and glazed and arranged with the precision of someone who does this professionally. Even annoyed, I can recognize skill. Robin knows what he's doing in a kitchen.
"Your roommate stress-bakes?" Jason asks, already reaching for a lemon tart.
"Constantly." Toby's still blushing, avoiding my eyes. "He works for a catering company. He's saving up to start his own."
"I stress-bake, success-bake, boredom-bake," Robin lists, ticking them off on his fingers. He leans against Toby casually as he talks, their shoulders pressed together. "Last week I made three wedding cakes just because Toby mentioned wanting cake."
Three wedding cakes. Because Toby mentioned wanting cake.
The casual intimacy between them is making my teeth itch.
The way Robin stands too close, well inside Toby's personal space.
The way he reaches over to fix Toby's hair again, tucking a stray strand behind his ear.
The way he thumbs a smudge off Toby's cheek like it's nothing like he's allowed to touch, like Toby belongs to him.
"We should go," Toby says suddenly, stepping away from Robin. Maybe he can feel the tension in the room. Maybe he can feel my eyes on him. "I have a program at four."
"Teen creative writing," Robin adds. "He's teaching them about unreliable narrators today. Very sexy, very mysterious."
"Everything is not sexy, Robin."
"Most things are sexy if you think about them right." Robin winks at Jason, who looks like Christmas came early. "Especially lions."
"Car. Now." Toby is physically pushing him toward the door.
Robin goes, but he calls back over his shoulder, "It was lovely meeting you all! Please keep taking care of our Toby. He forgets to eat and sleep when left unsupervised!"
Our Toby.
Our.
"I'm fine!" Toby protests, then pauses at the door and looks back. His eyes find mine for the first time since he walked in, and something complicated passes between us. "Thank you. For last night. These are just... thank you."
Then he's gone, the door swinging shut behind him, and I can hear Robin's voice through the walls, teasing Toby about something as they walk back to the car.
We watch through the window as Robin stops by the driver's side to ruffle Toby's hair one more time.
He says something that makes Toby laugh and shove him, and then they're climbing into the Audi, and then they're driving away, and I'm still standing here with my hands clenched into fists and my lion roaring in my chest.
"So," Vaughn says into the silence. "The roommate is a hot guy who touches him constantly."
"Who drives a seventy-thousand-dollar car," Ezra adds.
"Who Toby went home to at three in the morning," Jason contributes.
"Who he lives with," Silas finishes.
They all look at me.
I'm gripping the edge of the workbench hard enough that the wood is creaking, starting to splinter under my fingers. I can still smell them—Toby's warm sweetness and Robin's vanilla-butter-cologne, all mixed together.
"They're not together," I say.
"How do you know?" Vaughn asks.
I don't. I don't know. Robin touched Toby like he had every right to. Called him ours. Fixed his clothes, his hair, stood close enough to share breath. They moved around each other with the ease of long familiarity, the kind of comfort that comes from years of proximity.
But Toby didn't smell like sex. Didn't smell like Robin, not underneath. And the way he looked at me just now, that complicated expression right before he left—
"They're not together," I repeat, more firmly this time.
But my lion is ready to find out for sure. Preferably by marking Toby so thoroughly that pretty boy Robin won't even think about touching him again.
"Boss," Jason says carefully. "Your eyes are doing the thing."
I know. They're probably full gold right now, my lion too close to the surface, too agitated to stay hidden.
"Eat your tarts," I growl, and stalk back to the bike.
But I can still smell vanilla and butter mixed with Toby's warm-sweet scent, and it makes me want to break things.
Preferably Robin's perfect face.