Chapter 8 Soren
Soren
If there were such a place as Heaven, this might be it.
Quinn’s thick cock twitches on his tongue—sensitive after his third orgasm, but still mostly hard. The feel of soft skin and the sweet scent of cherries with a tinge of smoke make it hard to think beyond the urge to sink his fangs into the smooth skin of Quinn’s groin and bind them together.
Late afternoon sun has turned Quinn Lomax into something out of myth. Not Adonis—no, the Sun God would look plain beside him. With skin the deep brown of polished bronze and lean muscle stretched over big, sharp bones, he moves with a dancer’s fluid grace, even while reclined on the bed.
There is no one more beautiful.
Soren can trace every line of this man’s body by memory—has, with both lips and tongue—but fuck, he still isn’t ready for the way Quinn looks at him when he’s like this. As if he can hear the words Soren wants to confess, but never can. Words of obsession. Of devotion.
He can’t, because this is all he has left to give. Mere hours where he can give them both enough pleasure to make them forget the agony of an unforged bond.
Oh, he has tried to stay away—of course, he has. He’s been called a masochist and a dumbass. Take your pick—he’s heard it all. But he would never—could never—choose to cause this man pain.
And yet, here they are. Again.
On days when Soren can’t stand the separation any longer—long after he thinks he might happily crawl through broken glass and beg Quinn to let him worship at his feet and between his thighs, Quinn will finally take pity on them both and give in.
Let Soren show him in this, if not in words, that he would choose Quinn if he were free.
Every goddamn time. Especially on days like today, after he’d been inside Quinn’s body, he almost can’t stop himself from throwing caution (and Quinn’s explicit instructions) into the fire between them, consequences be damned.
It should make it easier that Quinn does not want the bond.
Says he can’t picture himself in a pack—tied down, held back, trapped in Nashville.
But Soren wonders sometimes if that’s just the story Quinn tells himself.
If the truth is simpler. That even here, even now, Quinn doesn’t believe he’s meant to stay.
What Quinn says is true. He may want Soren. Can’t stay away any more than Soren can. But he doesn’t need him.
And in Soren’s darkest moments, he can admit that all he’s ever wanted is a pack to hold him, a Pack Alpha to guide him, and a family he’s never known.
He understands completely that not even a masochist can endure this kind of pain forever, not when the future is empty and all that’s left is deciding what he can stand to lose.
Whenever Soren thinks about leaving Quinn’s side, Soren remembers he isn’t the only one who wants him. Quinn’s beauty draws hunger wherever he goes, but at The Glory Hole, it’s worse.
Onstage, he’s wildfire, and greedy eyes follow his every sinuous move.
Dirty hands twitch through metal bars, scents of lust thick in the air, convincing men it’d be worth it—just once—to touch what belongs to Soren.
And God, he loves this—loves Quinn soft and open for him, loves the privilege of making him come apart in Soren’s mouth.
“Wanted to taste you before you dance for them,” Soren murmurs, the fire of jealousy a searing agony. “Want you to remember you’re—”
He doesn’t finish. He’d been on the verge of confessing something neither of them wanted to hear.
Then—
Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.
It’s loud in the quiet aftermath, a jolt of pure adrenaline to his system where before, there had been only building desire.
Like a well-trained dog called by its master, he reaches for his phone. Holding his breath, because this is a stress alarm. This is the sound of Connall O’Daire in danger.
Quinn catches his breath.
Checking the screen, Soren sees his Pack Alpha is on foot, heart rate high.
Where the hell is Johnson? They’re supposed to be safe in The Gulch today, at Carnell’s spawn’s restaurant. It had been safe enough that Soren didn’t feel the need to survey the location in advance.
Everyone knows you don’t fuck with Gideon Carnell and his pack.
Whatever has set his Alpha off, it’s big, and Soren has only ever seen a reaction like that once before. The night Connall took the life of Patrick Carnell.
“I gotta go.”
Stiffening beneath him, Quinn growls. “Connall.”
It’s said with contempt, and if Soren didn’t know better—and it hurts to think that he does—it might sound like jealousy.
Jeans half-buttoned, keys and phone in his hand, Soren snags his shirt off the floor.
“You were just inside me,” Quinn whispers. It almost sounds sad. It definitely sounds accusing.
The words freeze him.
Memories of their afternoon flash behind his clenched eyes, and if he could hear his wolf at all, he knows it would be growling in outrage. How dare they leave their mate smelling of them and alone?
“I’ll see you later—”
“Don’t bother.” Quinn shakes his head, frustration tightening his mouth.
The light in his eyes—that glow he’d carried all afternoon—flickers out.
“Why do you run when he calls?” he asks quietly. “He left you. He doesn’t even want you.”
He allows himself an almost silent whine at the truth coming from Quinn’s perfect mouth. Connall didn’t want him then, and he sure as fuck wouldn’t now.
No one ever does.
Hand on the doorknob, Soren feels the weight of the words pressing him down. He can’t bear to look at his beautiful mate’s face. His expression is full of anger, contempt, and—worst of all—pity.
Pulling open the door, he slips out, shutting it quietly.
He stands for a moment on the other side of the old wood, battling himself.
He remembers the first time he was left behind—eight years old, at a sticky rest stop in upstate New York, watching the taillights vanish.
The ache in his chest now is the same shape, sharper only because this isn’t the first time he’s wanted something—someone—for himself.
He’d learned then what the world had to teach him: some kids get picked, some get left. He’d promised himself not to want too much, not to ask to be chosen, because wanting only made it hurt worse when no one ever did.
Until Connall O’Daire had bowled him over in the corridor on a train from Toronto to Montreal.
His Pack Alpha.
His mate.
So sure that fate had brought them together, he’d been overjoyed, finally free from the curse of being alone.
But fate could be cruel.
He feels it now, the same way—hope curdling into shame, longing into nausea. He shouldn’t have wanted so much. He shouldn’t have wanted at all.
Even now, after all these years, after all the blood and loyalty and the silent, unseen ways he’s watched over Connall, Soren has never been more than a shadow.
The alarm shrills again, setting him into motion, a reminder that their Pack Alpha is in danger and that it is his duty—if not always his pleasure—to protect him.
He takes the stairs down three at a time, bursting into the alley behind the bakery where his bike is waiting.
Old and tired, it has been more faithful over the past year than Soren has any right to expect.
He’d won it counting cards in a poker game, where he’d gone all in with only his ass to offer as collateral.
He’d been desperate for wheels, and the bike could make his life easier.
For just this reason.
Ubers are fucking expensive, and stalking your boss-slash-mate—who didn’t even know you’re in the same state, let alone within touching distance most days—is somehow even harder than it sounds.
He tucks his cell phone into the holder duct-taped to the handlebars so he can track Connall’s path, already thinking about how complicated this will get if he’s to take out the threat and stay out of Connall’s way.
The key turns with a click, but the engine doesn’t catch on the first try. Soren kicks the starter hard, his boot connecting with stubborn metal until the bike shudders, coughs, and then catches.
Gunning it once, just to clear the choke, the heavy vibration rattles up his spine.
In no time, he’s headed out toward The Gulch. The small blue dot on the phone has him three blocks from where he must have left his guard. Something is driving him hard in the opposite direction from his office, from his apartment, and the safety of Gideon’s restaurant.
In the almost seventeen years since Connall had held him on that train corridor, he has never known his mate to run—
No, not mate. Never mate. Mate is a word he’s not allowed himself in all that time. Pack Alpha, because that is what he would have been in a perfect world. A world where Soren is worthy to stand at Connall O’Daire’s shoulder and fight side by side.
But in this world, he was abandoned, raised by the foster system because he was too aggressive, too difficult, too damaged.
The memory of meeting Connall almost makes him miss the turn to intercept his alpha’s zig-zagging trajectory. It makes no sense. It’s like he’s running without a plan. No thought to his own safety, or where he’s going.
And why doesn’t he stand and fight?
Connall is a skilled fighter. Cunning, strong, and with the ability to take a hit and keep going. It’s part of what makes Soren so sure Connall is their Pack Alpha. Soren’s wolf could never bare its throat in submission for someone who couldn’t earn it in blood.
Connall’s tracking signal stops for just a moment before he’s on the move. Faster—and now entering the freeway.
“Fucking shit.” He’s in an Uber or a bus.
Soren takes a hard right down a one-way street, swerving to miss a taxi and then a slow-moving delivery truck. He hates driving on the freeway—his old bike isn’t up to speeds over sixty—but he won’t be sure where the bus will come out if he doesn’t.
It hits him then: Fuck! He’s so stupid. What the fuck’s wrong with him? He gets an alarm and forgets all the shit he’s put into place for just this reason.
He’d let his thoughts of Quinn distract him.
Beau Johnson tracks his boss, too. Not like Soren does—like a fucking stalker.
Johnson will have Soren’s phone on lock. Thank God Soren tracks that giant son of a bitch, too.
After the first time Soren’s tech let him down, he’d invested more of his limited resources in better technology. And in thinking more strategically. At least past-Soren had his shit together.
Shifting the screen to Johnson’s tracker—the one he’d stashed in the rear wheel well of the SUV weeks ago, just in case—Soren sees him six miles out, speeding toward Baker Street.
He gears down, engine fighting him, the bike shuddering like it resents the command.
It doesn’t matter. He’s already threading between cars, running yellow lights that were probably red, pedestrians scattering in his wake with curses and raised middle fingers.
The screen jerks in its mount as he hits a pothole, and he clamps down on the handlebars tighter, jaw clenched.
The old machine growls, barely keeping up, but Soren doesn’t ease off. His attention swings wildly between the tracker and the road; his focus is split like everything else in his life. Always impossible choices, and never an easy path.
Johnson finally stops, parking at the end of the block. Waiting.
Soren eases the bike into the narrow alley between a pawn shop and a closed barbershop, engine ticking as it cools.
He hears the bus before he sees it. Ducking into the doorway of the pawn shop, he doesn’t spare a glance at the guitars and amps in the window. Remnants of other people’s futures. Sold to support a present they hadn’t wanted and certainly hadn’t dreamed of.
Soren can relate.
The blue bus pulls up, and the door swings open. Bracing for a close-up look at his alpha, he’s shocked to see three passengers and the driver stumble out onto the sidewalk.
Cheeks flushed, the passengers all but flee, not looking back. The driver paces beside the bus, cell phone out, a loud conversation announcing Soren’s worst nightmare to anyone within earshot.
The word mates echoes inside his head, buckling his knees. Tilting into the glass, Soren moans under his breath just as Connall O’Daire staggers down the steps. Alone.
Forcing himself back into the shadows, he sees Connall hesitate. Looking up the stairs, he grips the rubber frame of the door as if he might climb up to whoever he’s left in that empty bus.
A breeze carries the rare scent of bitter winter straight to Soren’s nose, but it’s tinged with something else.
Visibly shaken and pale, Connall tears his gaze—and his claws—from the door, escaping to the safety of Johnson’s waiting vehicle.
It screeches away from the curb just as Soren deciphers it: sweet sugary lime, tart lemon tea, and…smoke-laden cherry, with the faintest tinge of heliotrope.
Oh, fuck. No.
The scents haven’t even finished burning through him before he’s stepping out of the shadows.
Because he has to see.
Because he has to know.
And then he’s face-to-face with Connall’s mate.
His mate. Quinn.
Quinn’s bravado falters for half a second, his face giving him away before he can smooth it over.
He’s not surprised to find Soren standing on the sidewalk, but he swallows hard, throat working around a flicker of nerves he can’t quite hide.
For one unguarded heartbeat, his eyes go wide.
Then his jaw sets, and he lifts his chin to meet Soren’s gaze.
“Well, cher. What now?”