ELIANO #2
Gosh, how annoying it all is. That mix of friendliness and the constant, oppressive pressure.
At lunch, Salt seems mentally absent. More than usual. He barely speaks, even though Roman and Evan try to draw him into conversation, asking about tattoo techniques.
Evan admits he has always wanted to get a tattoo and asks for advice. Salt gives it to him, but I can tell his heart is not really in it. He looks distracted, his gaze drifting off to the side.
At one point Roman says, "So when you look at Eliano, I guess it tempts you to suggest a tattoo to him?"
Salt clenches his jaw, barely noticeably, his heart speeding up just a little.
"That’s not how body art works. It’s a deeply personal decision, and nobody can or should influence it."
Silence falls. I hesitate for a moment before blurting out, "I never reached a point where I wanted to get a tattoo. I already have other permanent marks on my body, and I decided that was enough."
Roman and Evan stare at me, clearly confused, but I don’t explain anything. The topic drops. Salt sits with his head lowered, his face gloomy.
And that mood sticks with him afterward. If earlier he seemed perpetually irritated, now he feels heavier, gloomier, still angry but with a more subdued, weighed-down edge. And he smokes a lot.
There is no proper obed that day, because at four in the afternoon the party celebrating Shane’s pregnancy begins.
Salt dresses differently for the event than he usually does.
He pulls on black leggings. I have never seen him wear anything like that before.
It is a style more commonly worn by omegas, but I am not complaining.
They highlight his legs beautifully, slim, straight, well-shaped.
The tight fabric also emphasizes his rounded ass and that cute, subtle forward tilt of his hips.
At the front, the snug fit draws attention to his groin in a way that keeps pulling my gaze back far too often.
On top, Salt wears a white tank top made of thin, delicate fabric with silver trim. Around his neck hang several thin silver chains, and a few slim bracelets and silver links rest on his narrow wrists.
When he steps out of the bathroom, I also notice that his fingernails are painted a dark blue. His hair is loose, with some strands braided into thin plaits.
I freeze when I see him. He notices, and unexpectedly, winks at me. Heat rushes to my cheeks. Salt is very aware of how attractive he is. His style is not for everyone, but it has undeniable charm, and it certainly works on me.
Should I comment aloud on his outfit? It makes me hard, for sure.
But it’s obvious his wink doesn’t come from a cheerful place.
Salt leans toward the mirror mounted on the wall near the bathroom door and carefully lines his eyes with a thin stroke of eyeliner. His energy grows even heavier, like a storm cloud threatening rain.
Our eyes meet in the mirror’s surface. His mismatched one seems just as dark now.
"Sugnu attrattu di tia." (I'm attracted to you.)
Salt winces. "It’s unfair. You can speak in that silly AO growling thing and in your Italian thing too, and that leaves me sounding like an idiot who only knows basic street English."
"It’s Sicilian."
"Not the same as Italian?"
"Not the same. In Italian it would be: Sono attratto da te. At home we spoke Sicilian, sometimes blending it with Italian. My great-grandfather was from Caltanissetta, in the Sicilian interior. My dad’s family was from Ragusa, which added even more Sicilian to the mix.
Only my cousin Ennio preferred to speak Italian, so we often switched fluidly. "
Salt is silent for a moment, his eyes still on my face as reflected in the mirror.
"Attrato. Sounds like attract."
I don’t respond.
He slowly turns toward me, then leans back against the mirror. Gradually, he angles his head so his cheek presses to the cold glass surface and puffs out air, leaving a small foggy ring.
"You want my body?" he says in a husky voice.
I wince, since I’m not here to play games, and I can feel that vibe coming off him. "We should go, Salt."
He snorts, rolls his eyes, and pushes himself off the mirror using only his hips.
"Boring answer."
"I wish my life was boring," I grumble, turning away with my brow furrowed.
I head toward the door, and Salt follows, his lips forming something like a small, involuntary pout.
When we reach the beach plaza, the staff from Sector C have already set up tables with food. Two grills are working at full capacity, and the bar is serving guests, offering surprisingly good beer.
Some people have already started eating. They cluster around the grills, talking, laughing, while music plays loudly. There is a round dance floor set up, where those who feel like it sway to the music, sometimes faster, sometimes slower. The vibe is either playful bouncing or quietly cuddling.
I have never danced in my life. Not even once.
When I stayed with Uncle Albert, his husband Darien tried more than once to get me to dance at various family gatherings, but I consistently refused.
I was always low-key unhappy, and I think that blocked my physical expression, at least the kind that wakes up and flows through dance.
So when I see the numerous swaying couples, I cling to the hope that dancing is not mandatory here.
While I head over to the grill to grab a few steaks, Salt lines up at the bar. A moment later he turns toward me, carrying a tray stacked with mugs of beer.
That’s when I notice two figures moving in our direction. Miller and Sidorov. My brows knit instinctively.
The crowd seems to quiet down a notch when Sidorov appears, as if he carries some kind of heavy gravity with him.
Miller stays half-hidden in the shadows behind him, but Sidorov strides straight up to Jeff and Shane’s table, offering them congratulations that sound strange, his tone pompous and faintly aggressive at the same time.
Jeff smiles back, clearly pleased. Shane doesn’t. He keeps his head turned slightly away, pretending to watch the couples dancing nearby.
He pointedly ignores the warden, and the second Sidorov moves on, Shane’s face relaxes, the unease clearly draining out of him.
Sidorov isn’t tall. He’s a few inches shorter than Salt, and a bit round, yet there’s something about him that feels intimidating to everyone he approaches.
When he exchanges a few words with the staff by the grill and the sound system, I notice how their eyes flick away or drop to the ground, avoiding his gaze altogether, clearly eager to end the interaction as fast as possible. Interesting.
When Sidorov finally sits down at one of the tables, it’s just him and Miller. No one else comes near. It’s as if an invisible shadow hangs around them, a darkened zone no one wants to step into.
With a quiet sigh, I push his presence out of my mind for now and focus on enjoying myself.
Carrying the trays with food, I turn to look for our group.
Salt and I sit down at a table with Evan, Roman, and several other people Evan has already introduced us to.
Of course, the topic of the day is Shane’s pregnancy. Shane and Jeff sit together at an honorary table, where the best cuts from the grill are clearly being served.
Shane seems strangely happy, almost as if a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. I cannot tell whether Jeff knew about Drax at all, or whether he agreed.
From time to time, I glance in their direction. In a way, I feel sorry for them. If the option that Shane was forced into this arrangement is true, then it will stay with him and make proper bonding difficult. They would be building their relationship on a lie.
I also find myself thinking about the morals of the program’s overseers. How consensual is this whole mess, really?
I remember those strange words from Dr. Lee, suggesting that if the rules weren’t followed here, they could enforce certain procedures. It sounded vague, yet eerily so.
Roman and Evan also mentioned the gossip that it’s better not to refuse here, or things could get unpleasant.
The thought that, after a certain period of stay without becoming pregnant, betas are presented with a one-way option to have sex with Drax fills me with a shudder. The other option being kicked out of the program?
Well, after all, Miller threatened to send us back to the ferry port, didn’t he? And we only resisted mildly. They don’t mess around here, that’s for sure.
So disturbing, all of it.
Sadly, I have no idea how I could confirm it without asking Shane outright.
Salt must be thinking along similar lines, because his gaze also keeps drifting toward Jeff and Shane’s table.
He drinks from his mug, the level dropping quickly.
But I rarely have the urge to drink, and I’m not in a hurry to change that.
I eat one steak, then another. Alphas grow until they are twenty-one, sometimes even a bit longer, and I have always had a strong appetite.
More and more couples, loosened up by the atmosphere and the alcohol, drift onto the dance floor.
Meanwhile, Salt is already finishing his third mug. The rest of the people at our table are nowhere near keeping up, so I glance at him with mild surprise. After barely half an hour, he is already properly hammered.
"Salt, maybe slow down a little," I murmur quietly. "You’re going to fall off that stool."
Salt lets out a burp, then a hiccup, and says,
"I feel like dancing. Wanna sway around on the floor a bit, stud?" He drags out the words in a distinctly drunken way.
"Sorry, I don’t dance. Not my thing."
"Seriously? That’s disappointing. I like to hop around," he mutters.
Then, unexpectedly, Roman joins in. He leans forward slightly and says, "Maybe you can dance with me. What do you say?"
"Sure," Salt answers, not looking at me.
I stay quiet, even though I have a strange feeling that this is not the right moment for any of this.