Chapter 3 Sanctuary And Surveillance #2
First, zoning out like that in front of Cale. That's been happening more often lately—these moments where my consciousness just... slips. Where I'm looking at something but not seeing it, thinking about nothing and everything at once, while my body goes through the motions on autopilot.
It's the suppressants.
I know it's the suppressants.
They're not designed for long-term use at the doses I'm taking.
Especially not with the frequency I've been needing them lately.
The packaging says "every twelve hours as needed," but I've been taking them every eight.
Sometimes every six. Because the alternative is my scent breaking through, is my biology betraying me, is everything I've built coming crashing down in spectacular fashion.
The second fuck-up: almost passing out.
That one scared me more than I want to admit.
I've pushed myself before—pulled all-nighters, worked double shifts, functioned on nothing but caffeine and spite.
But this was different. This was my body staging a full-scale revolt, my knees giving out without warning, the world tilting sideways in a way that suggested I was about thirty seconds from unconsciousness.
If Cale hadn't been there...
I don't want to think about what would have happened if Cale hadn't been there.
Cale, who's right about everything even when I wish he wasn't.
I haven't been taking care of myself. Haven't been eating properly or sleeping enough or doing any of the basic maintenance that keeps a body functional.
Because the Formula One entry races are coming up—the preliminaries that will determine which teams and drivers make it to the main championship season.
Roran's competing.
My work will be on display for the entire racing world to see.
And I need it to be perfect.
Need to prove that I made the right choice by sticking with this team instead of accepting one of the fifteen other offers that have been sitting in my inbox for months.
Ferrari wanted me. McLaren wanted me. Even Mercedes fucking Benz reached out through back channels, offering salaries that would make most people's heads spin.
But I chose this team.
Chose the underdog, the challenge, the opportunity to build something from the ground up instead of just maintaining someone else's legacy.
And now I need to prove it wasn't a mistake.
Even if it's killing me slowly.
I should probably go see Dr. Reeves. Our family's private Omega specialist, the one who's been managing my suppressant prescriptions since I was sixteen and decided I was going to pursue racing no matter what my biology said.
She's discreet—bound by doctor-patient confidentiality and about six different NDAs my family's lawyers drew up.
Maybe she can get me better meds.
Something that doesn't make me zone out or feel like my head's stuffed with cotton. Or that lasts longer, so I'm not constantly calculating when I need the next dose.
A concoction that doesn't feel like I'm slowly poisoning myself in the name of a dream.
My eyes are drifting closed, the hot water and lavender scent combining into something dangerously soporific. I should get out. Should dry off and moisturize, and do all the evening routine things that keep my skin from revolting against the abuse I put it through.
Should, should, should.
But the water's so warm and my muscles are finally unclenching and I'm so fucking tired—
A specific ringtone cuts through the bathroom's quiet.
Not my default tone. Not the generic chime I use for most calls. This one's distinctive—a guitar riff from a song Cale once told me reminded him of us. All aggressive drums and angry lyrics that somehow translated to sexual tension in ways I've never quite figured out.
Which means it's him.
Obviously…
I force my heavy eyelids open and reach for my phone, bringing it to my ear without bothering to look at the screen.
"If you set cameras in the bathroom," I say, my voice rougher than usual from not having to maintain the lower register, "I will spike your next bottle of water with laxatives."
"Noted." His voice is warm with amusement, that deep rasp that does things to my insides I'm not supposed to feel through suppressants. "Now get out of that bath and actually sleep in a proper bed where you can't drown."
I grin despite my exhaustion, sinking a little deeper into the water just to be contrary.
"You wouldn't let me drown even if I tried, considering you're probably in the building hiding somewhere like the stalker you are."
He grumbles something under his breath—too quiet for me to catch the actual words, but the tone is pure Cale.
Possessive, protective, and trying to hide both behind annoyance.
The sound makes me giggle, and I can't quite remember the last time I made that sound. Something light and genuine and completely unguarded in a way Aurora Lane isn't supposed to be.
"Fine," I sigh dramatically, playing up the martyrdom. "I'm getting out."
He starts to say something, but I'm already rising from the bath.
The water cascades off my body in rivers, soap foam clinging to my curves in ways that would probably be artistic if I weren't too exhausted to care.
I know he's watching—know because that's our thing, this surveillance and counter-surveillance game we play.
Him watching through whatever cameras he's managed to install, and me knowing exactly where they are and choosing when to give him a show.
Right now, I'm choosing.
The silence on the other end of the line is deafening, and I can practically hear him holding his breath as I reach for my towel. Taking my time. Dragging the soft fabric across my skin slowly enough that he's definitely suffering right now.
Good.
Serves him right for installing cameras in the first place.
I wrap the towel around myself—Egyptian cotton, criminally soft, probably more expensive than it has any right to be—and pad across the marble floor to the walk-in closet.
This room doesn't have cameras.
I made sure of it by hiding the access panel behind a false wall and changing the security code to a riddle Cale's never been able to solve.
It's the one space that's truly mine, where I can be Aurora without performance or surveillance, surrounded by the clothes I actually like instead of the carefully curated masculine wardrobe I maintain for work.
The silence from Cale's end of the line continues as I browse through my sleepwear options. I should probably put on something substantial—a full pajama set, maybe, or at least something that covers more than it reveals.
Instead, I grab the Versace silk slip I bought in a moment of indulgent weakness. Deep emerald green that matches my eyes, hem that barely reaches mid-thigh, neckline that dips low enough to be interesting without being obscene.
It's soft as sin against my skin as I slide it on, the silk warming immediately to my body temperature.
"You know I can't see you now, right?" Cale's voice finally comes through the phone, rough with frustration and want. "Whatever you're doing in there—"
"I know," I interrupt, running my hands through my damp hair. "But be patient, you cocky asshole. You can watch me sleep all night if you want."
The sharp intake of breath on his end is gratifying.
I move to my vanity, grabbing the body oil I've been using lately—something with sandalwood and jasmine that layers well with my natural scent when I'm not drowning in suppressants.
The oil's warm in my palms as I work it into my skin, watching myself in the mirror as I go through the motions that have become ritual.
"Are you genuinely okay?" Cale asks, and the concern in his voice cuts through the teasing.
I pause, hands stilled on my collarbone, and consider lying.
Consider saying I'm fine, it was just a long day, nothing to worry about.
"Yeah," I say instead, because I'm too tired for elaborate deceptions. "I'll just sleep early. Get some actual rest for once."
He doesn't say anything, and the silence stretches between us in a way that's not uncomfortable. Just... heavy. Weighted with all the things we don't say, all the boundaries we maintain even as we blur them constantly.
"You can come cuddle if you want," I hear myself say, and I'm not even sure where the invitation came from.
Maybe from the same place that's been aching all day. The place that wanted to lean into Cale when he caught me, that wanted to bury my face in his neck and let his scent wash over me until the suppressants couldn't keep my Omega instincts at bay anymore.
The place that's tired of being alone in this beautiful, pristine, empty penthouse.
I finish with the body oil, rubbing the excess into my hands, and make my way to the bedroom. The bed is massive—California King, because apparently regular kings aren't sufficient for the Lane family standards—with white linens that are changed daily by a cleaning service I've never actually met.
I clap my hands twice, sharp and clear, and the smart home system obediently dims the lights. The city view disappears behind blackout curtains that descend with a mechanical whisper.
The bed is as soft as clouds when I slip under the covers, the silk of my pajamas sliding against the high-thread-count sheets in a way that should be sensual but is really just comfortable.
I should eat something…
The thought drifts through my mind with vague concern, but my body's already shutting down. Exhaustion pulling me under like a riptide, making my limbs heavy and my thoughts sluggish.
Did I turn off the lights in the bathroom?
Can't remember.
Too tired to check.
My phone's still clutched in my hand, Cale's breathing on the other end the only sound in the sudden darkness.
"Rora," he murmurs, using the nickname only he's allowed. Childhood things that were supposed to annoy me but don’t anymore.
And then I feel it.
The bed dipping with familiar weight. The covers lifting and settling as a body slides in behind me. Arms wrapping around my waist with possessive certainty, pulling me back against a chest I know better than my own heartbeat.
The scent.
Burnt cedar and dark coffee and raw amber, unfiltered and overwhelming in the best possible way. It fills my nostrils, soaks into my skin, wraps around my Omega instincts like the world's most perfect weighted blanket.
Safe.
Protected.
Mine.
My suppressants can't block the way my body responds—the way my muscles unclench completely, the way my breathing synchronizes with his automatically, the way some fundamental part of my biology recognizes his and settles.
"You're such a stalker," I mumble, but I'm already drifting.
His lips brush the back of my neck, and I feel his smile against my skin.
"You invited me."
"Mhm."
"Sleep, princess."
I want to argue.
Want to make some snappy comeback about not being anyone's princess, about him being a controlling asshole, about how this doesn't mean anything and we're still not actually together.
But the warmth is too good.
His scent is too perfect.
The exhaustion is too heavy.
And for once—just this once—I let myself have this.
Let myself fall into the blissful arms of sleep with an Alpha wrapped around me, keeping the nightmares at bay.
Knowing that tomorrow I'll have to wake up and be Rory Lane again.
But tonight, I'm just Aurora.