Chapter Eighteen
Kai
L ucian’s voice is muffled, but not muffled enough.
I’m in the guest kitchen - shirtless, barefoot, half-eaten apple in one hand, staring at the espresso machine like it personally offends me.
And honestly? It kind of does. The thing has more buttons than a goddamn fighter jet, and it won't give me a single drop of caffeine without scanning a fucking retina.
Probably not a bad thing given that it's the middle of the night, but I just needed a distraction.
Because they're at it again.
Down the hall, behind a steel door built to survive the apocalypse and probably two minor wars, Lucian Vale is doing his best impression of a brooding statue while the omega he definitely doesn’t want to ruin is panting his name like it’s the last word she’ll ever say.
It’s hot. It’s annoying.
It’s fucking torture.
“Lucky bastard,” I mutter to myself.
And he is. I don’t care how dark and broody and holier-than-everyone Lucian is - if she’s moaning for him like that, he’s doing something right.
Not that he’s inside. Oh no. Lucian’s got control. Big, dominant, iron-willed "I-don’t-share" energy . So instead, he’s standing there like a goddamn statue and getting off to the sound of her falling apart.
I’d laugh, but my cock’s already hard as fuck just thinking about it.
I’m fine, though.
Totally fine.
I bite into my apple with unnecessary aggression. Crunch loud.
Take that, health food.
My cock twitches again just thinking about the sounds coming out of that room. I swear to god, if Theo says the word restraint one more time, I will actively choke myself with a protein bar.
I toss the core into the sink and wander down the corridor. Realistically, I’ve got nothing better to do than vibe in this ridiculous palace of glass and brooding.
I'm itching to get out. I don’t belong here. I belong in a gym. Or a bar. Or my bed -
With company.
God, I miss my bed. More importantly, I miss the very bendy ballet instructor I was supposed to see three nights ago. And maybe the twins from the kickboxing class after that.
Sorry, ladies. Alpha lockdown. Vale’s rules - no touching, no leaving, no unsupervised knotting.
It’s like the worst health retreat ever. All scent diffusers, high testosterone, and zero orgasms.
All this building alpha tension, and no outlet.
I train out of The Pit - a hybrid gym downtown that specializes in functional fitness, combat drills, and the kind of sparring that ends in blood, bruises, and very sexy limps.
I like my bruises big and my opponents bigger. You can’t run security contracts in this city without making a few friends in low places, and cracking a few ribs in the ring to earn respect.
I've done both.
A lot.
Hell, I’ve got deals running through half the private security firms downtown. My name gets whispered when someone needs a quiet fix, a clean sweep, or an escort who won’t blink at a body in the trunk.
That beta back at the gala? The one who tried to call in Rhea like she was contraband?
He’s lucky I just broke his nose. I know people who specialize in vanishing people.
It's hard not to fantasize about that when I’ve been locked in here, taking shifts like it's a military operation, playing omega watch while Lucian paces like a pissed-off general and Rhea slowly burns through every goddamn phase of her heat.
She’s been reaching out through that half-formed bond the whole time - soft, aching pulses of instinct that I know she doesn’t fully understand.
It’s not even deliberate - it’s just there . Tugging at something deep in my chest like a hook under skin. A heartbeat out of sync with mine, whispering come back, come back, come back.
And it’s taking every shred of control I have not to reach right back. Not to answer her.
Not to accept it.
I reach my room - sorry, ' the guest quarters' - and strip off my jeans with the flair of a man who knows he looks good and deserves applause. I stretch, slow and smug, because I know Theo’s watching from across the hall.
Arms behind my head, back arched just enough. I’m in nothing but tight black briefs now - low on my hips, showing off the ridges of muscle, the ink curling around my thigh, the v-line that’s gotten me into a lot of trouble.
His book hasn’t moved in ten minutes, and neither has his very obvious crush.
“Evening,” I purr.
He makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like someone choking on his own spit. Doesn’t shut the door, though.
Progress.
I lounge on the bed in nothing but my briefs, one leg up like a cover model for a very inappropriate fitness calendar.
Then I stare at the ceiling and count my regrets.
One. Not sneaking out last night to blow off some steam.
Two. Not fucking that barista in Sector Five when she offered.
Three. The permanent mental image of Lucian dry-humping air outside Rhea’s door while growling commands like a horny warlord.
And speaking of Rhea... fuck .
That is one hot little omega.
Her scent is still in the walls. In the sheets. In my soul . It’s sweet and sharp and completely illegal. I’d bottle it if I could. Maybe sell it to the next poor bastard trying to understand what it means to be absolutely ruined by someone you haven’t even kissed.
My cock’s already hard. Figures.
I slide my hand beneath my briefs, stroke once, sigh like a man sentenced to monkhood.
I want to wreck something. Her, preferably. But since that’s not on the table...
I groan and flip onto my stomach, dragging a pillow under me like it’s going to apologize for not being Rhea. I grind against it slowly, muttering to myself.
“This house is hell. This is alpha abuse . Where’s the damn union rep?”
Nothing answers. Not even Theo, though I bet his ears are bright pink.
Still. She’s in there. Pressing up against the other side of that door, flushed and slick and breaking for us - one broken moan at a time.
And I’m not even mad Lucian got the first taste.
Well. Maybe a little.
But I’ll get mine.
Sooner or later, that girl’s gonna say my name too.
And then, I do it - because why not ?
I mean, sure, I could journal about my feelings or meditate or crochet a scarf like a healthy, emotionally regulated adult.
But no. I do what any red-blooded alpha would do after seventy-two hours locked in a mansion with three other testosterone goblins and an unclaimed omega scenting the entire estate like a walking wet dream.
I jerk off.
My hand slips under my waistband. One stroke, and I groan.
My cock’s hard and hot and honestly kind of offended we haven’t done this sooner.
My other hand skates down my abs, nudging my briefs lower. I grunt as I free myself, half-hoping Lucian’s ghost butler staff catches this on a camera and files a complaint. ' Conduct unbecoming ', or whatever.
I’ll put it on my résumé.
And then?
I go in.
Properly.
Fist wrapped, hips arching, mind full of the breathy little sounds Rhea made when she whispered Lucian’s name like a bedtime prayer.
Disrespectful, honestly.
But also deeply motivating.
“God, Omega…”
I pump my cock slow, smooth and steady. Every pass sends a fresh wave of heat rolling up my spine, and I know Theo’s watching - I can literally feel his gaze on me .
He’s perched on the edge of his bed like he’s in a goddamn Jane Austen novel, pretending to read but eye-fucking me every third page.
I smirk again. “Better than cable, huh?”
No answer. Just the air thickening between us.
But i f he wants to watch, then whatever - let him . Tomorrow, we’re back to playing protector; but tonight, I’m going to come hard in my hand, thinking about her scent…
…and let him watch m e fall apart.
Let him learn .
“This is restraint ,” I say, tilting my head toward the ceiling like I’m giving a TED Talk. “Lucian’s out there dry-humping his control issues against a steel door, and I’m in here being emotionally mature. Healthy outlets. Self-care. You’re welcome. ”
Still no response.
I grin wider and arch my hips higher, briefs halfway down my thighs, legs spread like a fucking sculpture in the lobby of a building I’d probably get kicked out of.
The heat’s humming under my skin, but it’s not just mine - it’s hers .
I can still smell her slick on the air. Still feel her heat like it’s circling inside my chest, pulling, tugging.
I stroke again. Harder now.
“You know,” I mutter, more to myself than anything, “I used to have a system for this. One night at the gym, one night at the club, one night with a friend who wouldn’t catch feelings and knew where the door was. Balanced. Sustainable. Clean.”
My cock twitches in my grip.
“Now look at me. Jerking off like a teen who just discovered skin mags.”
Theo shifts slightly. I hear the rustle of paper.
Book's upside down now. Called it.
I groan as my fist pumps faster. “Fuck, I miss the gym. Miss my bag. Miss punching something that isn’t my own dignity.”
Another stroke. Another pulse.
“God, her scent. You smell that too, Theo?” I pant, not even pretending to hide the shake in my voice. “Like syrup and sin and something I want to eat off the floor.”
Theo exhales. Loud. Pained.
Bingo.
I push myself higher, abs flexing, cock thick in my grip.
“I’d drop to my knees and worship her. I’d drag my tongue up her thighs and suck her clit until she sobbed my name like it was a prayer and a war crime.”
T he thought of her - writhing, panting, begging through that door - is killing me.
Still nothing from Theo.
So I go for the kill.
“I bet her pussy tastes like heaven . Like sugar and lightning. Like every bad decision I’ve ever wanted to make.”
I stroke faster, vision blurring.
My balls are tight. My hips can’t stop moving. My palm is slick from precome.
I imagine her.
Rhea.
On her knees.
That mouth wrapped around my cock. Those pretty lips soaked in spit and Omega need.
My back arches, and I snap.
“You still watching, pretty boy?” I manage, voice rough. “Still pretending you’re not hard as fuck for this?”
Silence.
But it’s the kind that pulses.
“Good,” I hiss. “Then watch me come.”
I tip over the edge with a growl, hips jerking, cock spilling across my hand and stomach in hot, messy streaks. I ride it out, groaning like a man who just found the last cookie in the jar.
My fist finally falls away, slick and spent. I inhale deeply and roll to the side.
“ Fuck ,” I mutter, grinning as I come back in to myself again. “You should’ve taken notes on that.”
I sit up, grab the towel I left on the floor ( yes, I’m disgusting and self-aware ), and clean up.
Leisurely. Like I’m wiping down a victory.
I toss the towel into the corner with the grace of a man who’s definitely not doing laundry himself, then sprawl back on the bed. Bare. Satisfied.
Maybe a little smug.
“You’re welcome for the show,” I murmur, loud enough to cross the hall. “Tips accepted in the form of compliments and/or baked goods.”
Still nothing.
I smirk. “Sweet dreams, big guy.”
Then I roll over and fall asleep.
Hard. And happy.