ONE
A YEAR LATER
DEVON
“Your friend’s stalker situation is settled, boss.”
I look up from the papers on my desk, at Callum, who’s lounging low in the chair facing me, arms crossed over his chest, knee bouncing up and down.
I swear, the guy can’t stay still to save his life.
“Good.” I nod. “Did you follow protocol?”
“Of course,” Callum scoffs. “Mostly,” he adds under his breath, pretending to avoid my gaze when I blink at him.
“What did you do, Callum?”
He whirls around, clutching his chest.
“Nothing! I was the perfect angel.” He turns to look at the chair next to him, at his brother, Dominic, whose lips are twitching. “Tell him, Dom.”
“He was the perfect angel,” Dominic deadpans, and Callum narrows his eyes at him.
Sensing his gaze on him, Dominic locks eyes with Callum, and in any other case, having two alphas staring each other down in my office, would not bode well for my furniture.
But they’re not like that.
They’re not brothers by blood, but they’re their own group. If one moves, they both do.
They never get separated.
And they’re really good at what they do.
Something passes between them, and the tension breaks when Callum grins, his knee stopping its bouncing when Dominic taps his foot with his.
“See?” Callum says, turning to me. “Besides, your friend pretty much took care of the problem himself. All we had to do was be very clear to that piece of shit that we were not happy with him at all, and then dump him with our guys at the police station. I think we were appropriately persuasive.”
Yeah, I’m sure they were.
It’s not the first time that owning and managing a security company that specializes in bodyguard services, private guards, and surveillance has made me tread into morally and legally ambiguous territory, and it probably won’t be the last.
Some things just can’t be handled any other way. No matter how much I wish they could be.
“Do you need us for anything else, boss?” comes Dominic’s steady voice.
I shake my head.
“No, you can go. Nice work.” They’re almost at the door when I add, “Stay out of trouble.”
The door opens and shuts, but not before I hear Callum whisper-shout, “When have we ever gotten into trouble?”
I can’t help but chuckle at his indignant tone, and the sound echoes in the now empty office.
There is a dull throb in my temples, which is understandable after the clusterfuck of the last few days. Leaning back, I rub my eyes hoping for some temporary relief that doesn’t come, my gaze straying to the floor-to-ceiling windows behind me that overlook the city.
The skies are overcast today, turning everything gray, dull. Colorless.
I snort, just as there’s a knock at the door.
Great. Apparently, headaches now turn me gloomy as fuck.
Headaches have nothing to do with it.
I silence that voice immediately.
“Enter.”
Colin’s blond head pops in before the rest of him follows as well, files in hand.
The poor guy has been temporarily handling my schedule and appointments on top of all his other duties as an administrative assistant.
“What is it, Colin?”
“Sir, I brought you the profiles and CVs of the three applicants you’re interviewing today for the position of your personal assistant.”
“Any promising ones?”
“They all are, I’ve vetted them myself to make sure everything checks out.
The first candidate especially looks like a good fit.
” He raffles through the files, until he finds the one he wants.
“Mr. Hartwell. Age 29. Omega. Has recently had a baby and he has a five-year experience working as an executive personal assistant. He should be here any moment now.”
“I sincerely hope you’re right,” I say, standing up to get rid of some of the stiffness on my body. “Thank you, Colin. Leave the files on my desk, and I’ll take a look at them.”
He nods politely, doing as I say before exiting my office, while I head to the undercounter cooler to grab some water.
Fuck, this has been a fucking nightmare.
Just the idea of having to train a new PA is making my temples throb even harder.
I’ve just gulped down some very much needed, cold water when there’s another knock.
My back is still turned when I say, “Come in.”
It’s the scent that hits me before anything else. That roots me in place, and tells me who it is before I’ve heard his voice or looked at his face. That makes every muscle in my body tighten with awareness, with familiarity.
A scent that dug its claws into me in a busy hotel bar months and months ago, and never fucking let me go.
A scent I can still feel on my tongue, at the back of my throat, underneath my skin.
Sweet like strawberries and cream.
Inebriating like roses blooming in spring.
But somehow more. Stronger now. Richer. Thicker.
I turn around, and it’s all there, exactly as I remember it.
Dark-red hair with a barely-there curl to it that makes me itch with the need to card my fingers through it. Warm, brown eyes framed by russet eyelashes. Pale skin and countless freckles on his nose, his cheeks, his throat—freckles I know cover every inch of his body.
A body I’ve touched, fucked, knotted. Bred.
A body I’ve taken and felt trembling in my arms.
What is he doing here—in my office, in my company?
And why the fuck am I acting like this? Like I’m seconds away from lunging at him like a mindless, uncivilized beast.
Do I even care why he’s here when I could just cover our distance in two strides and feel that perfect mouth parting beneath mine again? When I could have his sighs in my ears one more time?
For fuck’s sake. The guy might not even remember me, and here I am watching him like he’s my next meal.
No.
His eyes are wide, and his face is flushed, a gorgeous blush spreading all over his cheekbones with every ticking second.
No, he remembers me. He remembers everything perfectly well.
The thought makes me burn with wild satisfaction as I move towards him, only stopping when I’m inches from him and he has to tilt his head to look at me.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, voice low.
His mouth opens and closes before he licks his lips and clears his throat.
“Mr. Kingston?”
God, that soft voice… It makes me—
Wait.
Mr. Kingston?
I nod even as something nags at the back of my mind.
He swallows, and that gnawing feeling becomes more insistent. Urgent.
“I’m here for an interview regarding a PA position.”
Mr. Hartwell. Age 29. Omega. He should be here any moment now.
Has recently had a baby.
“Sam Hartwell.” A small smile tips his lips. “Nice to meet you.”
The gnawing feeling is gone now, probably because my chest feels like it’s being crushed, hot shame spilling in my gut.
Jesus, have I lost my fucking mind? Fantasizing about someone I haven’t seen in over a year? A most-likely mated omega, who’s just had another alpha’s baby?
Simply because we spent one night together, and he fell asleep on my chest with my knot still inside him?
My eyes flick to his neck, but his mating mark wouldn’t be visible like this. Not from this angle, and definitely not in a shirt and suit.
Something ugly twists my insides, something feral and hurt that I don’t understand, that howls and demands I bare his neck, his nape, and search for the mark myself, see it with my own eyes.
I need—I need to calm the fuck down, which is a great idea in theory if only I fucking knew how to do that.
I meet Sam’s gaze again, small, soft smile still on his lips, and all agitation drains out of me. Slowly. Steadily. Leaving me empty of everything else but warmth. So much warmth.
“Nice to meet you too, Mr. Hartwell. Officially.” I smile when a tiny laugh escapes him. “Devon Kingston.”
He nods, but otherwise neither of us moves. No noises slip through the soundproof walls, and we’re so far above the street nothing reaches us up here. It’s just quiet.
Quiet enough for me to hear him breathe.
“Uh,” he starts quietly. He doesn’t need to speak louder anyway. I’m still standing close enough to touch him. “I don’t know what I should do. Stay or—”
“Yes,” I say simply. “Please, take a seat. Would you like some water?”
“No, I’m fine. Thank you,” he mutters with another smile as he sits in the same seat Callum vacated just a bit earlier.
It takes a few seconds for me to realize I’m hovering above him like a fucking weirdo before I’m rounding the desk to get to my seat.
I already hate the distance.
Jesus fuck. Get a fucking grip.
I make a point of showing I’m going through the papers in front of me, though there’s absolutely no need for that for two reasons.
One, because Sam’s CV sits at the very top of all the others, and all it takes is one good look for me to tell that his qualifications are top notch.
And two, because I do a very bad job at pretending I don’t feel his eyes on me.
So, I don’t.
“How have you been, Sam?” I ask him, burning to know.
His freckles shimmer every time his expression changes, his cheeks still rosy.
“Fine. I’ve been fine.”
I wait to see if he’ll say anything else, and when he doesn’t, my eyes fall to the papers on my desk again, disappointment churning in my gut.
“You look good.”
His words take me by surprise, and when I look at him, I don’t think I’m the only one.
He’s embarrassed.
Damn, he looks cute when he’s flustered.
Mated. He’s mated.
“You do, too.”
His smile flickers at my words, and my stomach sours when a humorless huff of laughter leaves him.
“What?” I ask.
“You don’t mean that.”
The bluntness of his answer gives me pause.
“Why wouldn’t I mean that?”
“Because I’m exhausted, and I’m pretty sure I look like it, too.”
His eyes are downcast, his hands fidgeting with the messenger bag on his lap, and I can’t help taking him in.
He looks exactly like he did that night, leaning against that bar counter, sipping his drink, the light dancing in his dark-red curls.
If possible, he looks even better now. He’s fucking glowing.
“You don’t look exhausted, Sam. You look—” My sentence trails off when his eyes meet mine again.
“What?” he murmurs.
Beautiful.
I swallow down the word, going for the next one that comes to mind.
“Happy. You look happy.”