Chapter 4
CHAPTER
FOUR
Reece
The music box is beautiful. Old, too. Very old.
The tiny dancer inside isn’t original but everything else is. The internal workings still click into place when wound, and the spring mechanism silences the music the moment the lacquered lid falls.
I turn it carefully in my hands, thumb brushing over the worn surface and every imperfection.
Someone loved this once. It just needs some love poured into it again. It can look nearly brand new with some polish and with the gears lubricated. I doubt it’ll take long to fix up at all.
The small bedroom Derrick and I share carries the scent of a faint mix of oil, metal, and a stubborn damp that never quite leaves a basement. There’s barely space for two narrow beds and a crate between them doubling as a table, but it does the job.
Derrick grumbles about the size—back at Ms. Ashford’s, or Pen’s, country estate, the servants had the attic converted into a sprawling shared living space. More room to spread out, to breathe.
I don’t mind it here, though. I prefer the privacy the Gardener townhouse gives us. All the live-in staff sleep downstairs, but it’s only two to a room. However, Derrick isn’t the best roommate to have.
I like Pen. She insisted we call her by her nickname, and even now I still think of her as my boss more than the Gardeners. Maybe because it makes things easier. Easier to pretend I’m not crossing lines I shouldn’t even be considering.
My gaze drifts back to the box’s tiny ballet dancer, and Mari flashes through my mind—bright, laughing, impossible to ignore.
I exhale and scrub a hand down my face.
The music box was a bargain.
Free.
I found it in the trash behind the antique store in Midtown last week, when I was out with Mrs. Gardener and her two youngest daughters. The piece didn’t work, grime packed into every seam, years of neglect layered over something that used to matter.
Reduced to junk. Forgotten.
I hesitate, then crouch and slide it beneath my bed. I’ll take it out to the shed later. There, with my tools, I’ll be able to work on it properly.
But I don’t want to risk Mari walking in and seeing it unfinished.
She appreciates the work, the craftsmanship. She sees the treasure in the trash. Out of all the Gardener siblings, it will hurt her the most to recognize the story of the piece held up against its present state.
Right now, I should be looking for Rita. She asked me to come up to the kitchen after my chores, and I know that if she’s asking, it’s probably important.
I straighten, wipe my hands on my pants, and head for the door and the narrow servant stairs leading up into the main house.
Sunlight pours in through long windows lining the hall, making it impossible to disappear the way I usually do. I keep my head down anyway and stick to the edges, but as I pass the small alcove angling out to the yard, someone turns the corner—and I slam straight into Derrick.
My stomach drops.
“Reece’s Pieces.” His lip curls as he looks me over. “Where are you off to in such a hurry? Hoping to meet up with your little Omega?”
“I wasn’t—”
His hand catches my shirt, fisting the fabric and yanking me closer. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to stop me from slipping away. Enough to remind me who’s stronger.
“You can’t be sniffing around Omegas in this house,” he says, voice sharp. “They’re out of your league. And that one? Marigold?” His grip tightens briefly. “Now that it’s her Mating Season, all eyes are on her. You’d better not do anything stupid to fuck this up for us.”
I try to ease back. “Derrick,” I say, “it’s not like that. Marigold’s just…nice.”
“Nice?” He huffs a humorless laugh and lets go, giving me a short shove instead. “Omegas aren’t nice. They’re trouble. Not only are you not on their level, but you aren’t even playing the same game.”
I rub at my shirt where he wrinkled it, heat crawling up my neck. “The Gardeners are our employers. I’d never do anything to jeopardize our position.”
“Good.” His jaw flexes. “Because this job? It’s temporary. Necessary, until we can save up enough money to move to the mainland and live on our own. I don’t want to be someone’s doormat for the rest of my life. Do you?”
When he eyes me, I shake my head. “Of course not.”
“Then we keep our heads down, we do the work, and we don’t screw it up by chasing things that were never meant for us. Stay away from the Omega. Do you understand me?”
I swallow but nod.
“If you want to get your dick wet, then you can come with me to the Lower Side tomorrow night. There are plenty of places there where you can lose your virginity. For a price.” He winks.
For a second I stare, wondering if I heard him right.
Did he say…?
Is that what he thinks this is? Does he think all I want to do is fuck Mari?
My hands curl into fists.
Derrick often disappears to the Lower Side whenever he gets the chance. Late nights. Days off. And he always comes back smelling like smoke, sweat, and something I’ve never wanted to name.
I won’t ask, better off not knowing, but now I have a pretty good idea.
Sure, I’m a virgin. And there’s no way in hell I’d ever go with him and be with a…prostitute.
Mari isn’t— She means more to me than—
I clamp down on those thoughts before they can finish.
Before they can betray me.
“Aw, did I hurt your feelings?” Derrick’s smile swells. “Does the virgin not like being reminded of what he’s missing? You wait any longer and your cock will shrivel up and fall off.”
“I…I need to find Rita,” I tell him, already edging back toward the kitchen. “She needs me to help her with something.”
At the mention of her name, Derrick’s body stiffens. Rita’s not exactly his favorite person after she once chased him out of Pen’s kitchen, threatening to hit him with a wooden spoon. She transferred to the Gardeners with us, but since then, he keeps his distance.
“Don’t forget what I said, Reece,” he barks out to my turned back. “I won’t have you fucking this up for us.”
I don’t stop. I just walk away because he’s definitely made his point.
Loud and clear.
The delicious smell hits me first—warm bread, yeast, butter. Comforting in a way that still doesn’t ease the tension knotting my shoulders.
Rita is at the counter with her elbows dusted in flour, hands deep in dough as she kneads it with steady, practiced pressure.
She “likes to eat the food she makes,” which is what she says when talking about herself, with her gray hair pulled back in a loose knot and strands escaping around her temples.
But most important, she has the kind of expression that says she can be as sweet as the pie she bakes or as sharp as the knife she cuts it with. It all depends on you.
The moment I step in, pale blue eyes flick up and immediately narrow. “Well,” she says, exhaling through her nose. “You look like you’ve been chewed on.”
I blink. “Thanks?”
“That wasn’t a compliment.” She blows out a breath and studies me a second longer, then shakes her head like I’ve personally disappointed her. “Sit before you fall down.”
I lock my knees. “I’m fine.”
“Sit.”
Knowing better, I do as she bids. There’s a stool near the prep table, and I take it before Rita can escalate the argument into something I’ll end up losing anyway.
She keeps kneading, but her eyes stay on me. “You’re shaking again.”
“I’m not.”
“You are absolutely trembling.”
I glance down. I am. The conversation with my brother rocked me more than I care to admit.
She clucks her tongue. “That boy’s been at you again, hasn’t he?”
She doesn’t call Derrick by his name, as though naming him will classify him as something different in her book, and she likes him where she can understand him.
“It’s nothing,” I insist, sitting up straighter.
“You always say the same thing,” she mutters as she punches the dough. “And it’s always a lie.”
“It’s brothers being brothers.” I hate the way my voice drops. Trembling as badly as I am.
“Bull-fucking-shit.” She snorts. “I had an older brother and he treated me like a princess. If he had ever treated me like anything else, I would have knocked his clock clean off its hinges.”
And I believe her too. For seventy-two years of age, Rita is one tough cookie.
Then she points at me with a flour-dusted hand. “When did you last eat?”
“I—” I pause and my stomach immediately betrays me with a growl. “I had some cottage cheese this morning.”
“That’s not eating,” Rita says flatly.
Before I can argue, she’s already moving, cutting a thick slice of one of the fresh bread loaves she made today. After slathering on an ungodly amount of butter, she sets it in front of me with a glass of water like it’s non-negotiable.
“Eat,” she orders.
“I’ve got—”
“Eat.”
I pick it up like a good boy. A good virgin, I remind myself. Disgust comes easier than acceptance. It always does.
Rita watches until I take a bite. It’s still warm, the crust giving way with a soft crack before the inside melts against my tongue. Light, buttery, with just enough salt to bring it to life.
Rita’s a Beta, and her natural scent mirrors that: warm, sweet, comforting in a way that settles something deep in my chest. It reminds me of what books describe as home.
Since I’ve never had one of my own I wouldn’t know. But I think…this might be what it’s supposed to smell like.
Only when I’ve taken another bite does she nod, satisfied, and return to her dough.
I eat slowly now as the warmth of it settles somewhere I didn’t realize was empty.
Rita glances over again. “I didn’t ask you here to chastise you about your eating habits, believe it or not,” she says. “The damn mixer is acting up again. It isn’t even turning on anymore.”
“Your stand mixer?”
“The very one,” she says, flexing her fingers as she kneads again. “My hands are going to fall off if I keep doing this the old-fashioned way. Dough doesn’t care how old you are.”
“I can fix it for you,” I say. “It shouldn’t take long. I’ll work on it tonight.”
“If anyone can figure it out, it’s you.”
Her confidence makes me smile. I take another huge bite of bread and chew thoughtfully.