Chapter 21 Soren #2
He hears Quinn wake Sleeping Beauty, pulling Kaian from the truck and into his arms. “We’re here, bébé. Hang on to me now.”
From the corner of Soren’s eye, Kaian’s skin almost glows in the moonlight.
“We’re here already? Oh, hey, this is cute.” Kaian pushes back his hair, tucking a strand behind his ear.
“Shhh, yeah? Places like this have a neighborhood watch. They take their ‘my home is my castle’ shit seriously,” Quinn says, his voice low and whiskey smooth.
From the sidewalk, the place looks harmless. There’s a narrow stoop, which would make it hard for trick-or-treaters—and assailants—to get to the front door. Good thing Soren is going in through the garage.
The keypad waits around the side of the house under another camera, not out front between the garage doors, and exactly where a man who hates surprises would put it. Soren’s mouth curves despite himself.
As brilliant as Connall is, the security code is always the same: 76736.
Every time Soren thinks Connall will have realized the danger of being so predictable, that he’ll have moved on to another code, it’s still the first one he tries, and it hurts every time he keys it in.
It feeds the smallest, most pathetic fire in Soren’s soul.
The garage door opens, louder than he’d like. They slide under before it can go up all the way. Soren hits the panel beside the door, and they’re standing in the watery light of the empty two-car garage.
The house door is easy after that, and Soren steps over the threshold, a ghost returning to the scene of a life he never got to have.
Musty, the house has been empty for Goddess knows how long, and the narrow hall from the garage leads into the laundry room.
Straight ahead are the four doors in the hallway, and immediately to the right is the small kitchen and living room.
“Stay here, I’m going to make sure the place is empty.” Soren doesn’t wait for an answer, and it doesn’t take him long. Three tiny bedrooms, two with double beds, and a third with a desk and chair. The windows are covered in blinds and innocuous drapes.
Clothes are hanging in the main suite’s closet, all neatly pressed and utterly impersonal.
Soren lifts a sleeve to his nose, searching for something familiar—the faintest trace of his alpha—but there’s nothing.
His face heats with shame when he remembers this isn’t the first time he’d lurked in Connall’s space, sniffing his clothes and pillowcases like the worst stalker.
He finds what he expects under the sinks and cupboards: cleaning supplies, bottles of shampoo, and a first aid kit that rivals a paramedic’s bag, complete with an AED.
When he gets back to the kitchen, Quinn has pulled all the blinds and turned the light on over the stove.
Kaian is leaning against the breakfast bar, head propped in his hand, the golden light turning his dark, wavy hair a burnished mahogany and his skin warm. It also highlights the dark shadows under his eyes and the brackets of fatigue around his mouth.
Still, he’s one of the most beautiful things Soren has ever seen—soft in the light, vulnerable in a way that tugs at something low in his gut.
“Fuck, you’re pretty,” Soren says to himself.
Quinn’s jaw drops at the same time Kaian’s cheeks flush.
Soren’s ears burn hot, but it doesn’t change that he would like to make Kaian’s flush a little more permanent and see how far down his soft throat it goes.
“I said that out loud, didn’t I?”
“Oh yeah,” Quinn says, crossing his arms, smirk firmly in place—and eyes bright with actual shock because Soren is a man of few words outside of the bedroom.
Kaian jumps to his feet. “Maybe I could get a shower? I feel like it’s been ages since I had hot water.”
The vision in Soren’s brain morphs into a wet version of Kaian and Quinn, soap-slick, moving together under the hot spray.
He wants to watch Quinn make their angel come.
He wants to be on his knees behind them.
Wants Quinn’s fingers to come away slick and sweet with Kaian’s come—and then slip into Soren’s mouth.
Soren bites down on a groan. He goes into the hallway and returns holding a big white bath sheet. If he scents it a little with his wrist first, no one needs to know.
Except Quinn, who raises his eyebrows. “Go get clean, bébé. I’ll find you some sugar. That helps? Right?”
Kaian heads toward the bathroom, but turns at the last minute. “Oh yeah, that’ll help with the low energy. And… you know I–I might need energy?” he stammers. He lowers his gaze, biting his lip after what he must think is being bold.
Goddess, if he only knew what the shy words are doing to him. And to Quinn, too, if the scent of lush red cherries is anything to go by.
Quinn places his elbow on the counter, propping his chin in his hand, and drops his voice low. “Do you need any help?”
Kaian fumbles a little laugh, already backing away. “I—I think I’ve got it.”
Soren listens for the lock, but when the telltale click isn’t forthcoming, he has to plant his feet to stop himself from following.
“Toiletries under the sink!” he adds belatedly. He tries to walk away, distract himself by checking the fenced-in yard, but Quinn grabs his arm.
He doesn’t say anything, just holds on, trying to decipher Soren’s expression.
“What are we even doing?” Quinn asks, barely moving his lips.
Soren shakes him off just as the shower hisses to life behind him. He forces the mental image of his wet, naked mate back into the dark. “What does that mean?” he asks, even though he already knows.
“This morning, you couldn’t wait to get away from me,” Quinn says, “and I pushed hard enough to make sure of it.” His eyes find Soren’s, sharp and smoky, his scent turned sour with resentment…and regret.
Soren remembers a panicked Connall on the move and how Quinn had been pissed. He’d struck like he always did—with precision, with cruelty, because he knew exactly where to land the blow.
It’s just their way.
Soren yanks his wrist away. He wants to say, I don’t know what I’m doing. With you. With him. With any of it. But he doesn’t.
Silence stretches between them. The hiss of the shower fills the space like static, but it’s not enough to drown out the ache building in Soren’s chest. Anxiety floods his system, and he aches to make it go away with his usual coping strategies: fighting, fucking, and checking on Connall.
Because he already has a brain injury, and he has no intention of finding Kaian in the shower, his hand twitches at his side, muscle memory reaching for his phone. He doesn’t even need to open it—he already knows what he’d see. That familiar dot, still and waiting.
Quinn’s eyes are heavy on Soren’s face as if he’s resigned to watching Soren choose Connall even now, but he says nothing.
What Quinn doesn’t know is that this time, Soren isn’t just thinking about Connall. The Vincenzos had sent their best to take Kaian from him. They had thought it was worth killing Soren’s mate to do it.
Soren’s mates.
He’d endured a lifetime of loss with Connall right there. To lose his other mates? Soren’s wolf is consumed with rage and fear at the memory. It means that now he must divert his vigilance to mates who are in immediate danger, not safe in their bed or at home or under Johnson’s vigilant eye.
But Soren can’t tell Quinn any of that. Can’t find the words for why, right now, he doesn’t have to check on Connall. That his attention is right where it needs to be—where he wants it—despite not knowing what the fuck he’s doing for real.
“We’re doing what needs doing. He’s just a kid.” Soren scoffs when Quinn opens his mouth to repeat Kaian’s mantra for him. “I know he’s not an actual child, dumbass. But there’s something about him. Something—”
“Naive.” Quinn nods and begins opening cupboards, eventually digging out a package of instant pudding that you just mix with water and heat in the microwave. “Too trusting.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” Soren grits out.
He wants to gag at the thought of his next words coming true.
“When Alfonso fired that gun…you were as good as dead. That bastard is a shit Human but a fucking good shot…and from eight feet away? Then it was just fucking gone, Blaze, like it had never been.”
The microwave beeps, and the overly sweet scent of artificial cherries and sugar steams from the baked pudding. Setting the dish on the breakfast bar, Quinn’s gaze gets far away while he remembers the minute he’d probably seen his life flash before his eyes.
“He’s got some power,” Quinn sighs. He leans back against the counter and presses the heels of his palms to his eyes. He must be tired, too, after his shift and now this.
They could all use some sleep…the kind that didn’t come with dreams about what-ifs.
Soren stares down at the sad excuse for dessert—processed cherry goo smeared across the dish like a bloodstain. Maybe tomorrow he’d hit the neighborhood market, find something decent. Comfort food. Something that didn’t taste like someone’s buck-fifty version of space food.
He’s never been much of a cook, but pre-made meals exist for a reason, right?
The shower turns off, and both he and Quinn track the noise, no doubt imagining their mate fresh and clean—soft skin still damp from the heat of the shower.
“Fuck,” Quinn mutters. “What am I doing? Why is this so much harder?”
Harder to stay, he means.
“Maybe it’s us…together.” Soren knows the words are true the minute he says them.
“You mean now that there are three of us…like this…” Quinn exhales slowly. “It’s harder to think about leaving.”
“Hmm. Doesn’t help that he’s in danger either.
” Being an alpha means epic-level protective instincts on overdrive.
Add in that they’re avoiding the bond with intent…
well, that’s biology’s—and fate’s—way of bringing them to heel.
He’ll not be saying that out loud unless he wants to add chasing Quinn all the way back to Nashville to his list of late-night to-dos.