Chapter 12
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Reece
Iwind another length of rope through my hands as I walk the edge of the Gardeners’ yard. The garden is quiet this early in the morning, the flowerbeds silvered beneath dawn, the big estate still asleep.
But my mind isn’t quiet. Not even close.
I can still see Mari at the Ackerman ball in her gold dress, glowing beneath the stars like something out of a fantasy. Every Alpha watching her, wanting her.
And then tonight, half asleep and disappointed as she climbed the stairs, talking about another man.
The thought leaves a bitter twist in my chest no matter how hard I try to ignore it.
Of course there’s another Alpha. I bet he’s rich, handsome, the best possible mate for her. Someone who belongs in her world.
The rope tightens in my grip. I stare down at it.
Derrick’s angry words bounce around in my head. As much as I hate to admit it, I’ll never be an Alpha. I’ll never be able to give her what she needs physically or the kind of comfortable life she deserves. Maybe I should stop hoping I can be something I’m not.
But…
As I continue staring at the rope, my thoughts slip somewhere dangerous anyway.
Because maybe I can’t give Mari the kind of bond that biology intended for her. Maybe I can’t knot her, mark her, or offer her some giant mansion with servants waiting on her hand and foot. But I could make her feel good. Cherished. Happy.
I would want her for more than her status or what kind of babies she could give.
I’d love her.
The rope slides slowly through my fingers as a deep ache coils low in my stomach.
I imagine guiding her hands above her head with patient care, watching those big green eyes stay locked on mine while I kiss her breathless beneath the trees. Taking my time with her. Learning every tiny sound she makes. Every shiver. Every gasp. Learning how to please her the way she craves.
Not taking from her, but giving.
The thought alone drives me crazy. Because no Alpha at those parties sees Mari like I do. She’s art. She’s sunlight.
And maybe that’s pathetic. Maybe Derrick’s right and I’m chasing something impossible, but standing in the morning light with Marigold haunting every corner of my mind, I can’t make myself stop wanting her. Or stop imagining how she’d look with her body underneath mine.
The image burns hotter the longer it stays in my head.
Her hair tangled between my fingers. Her breathing uneven. Her body arching toward mine because she trusts me enough to let me lead.
Christ. I drag a hand down my face roughly, but my pulse keeps pounding anyway.
Coiling the rope tighter around my hand, I turn and head toward the shed.
The small space smells like sawdust, machine oil, and faint traces of Mari from when she visits and watches me work. Her scent is a whisper, as it’s been a while since she’s come to watch. For me, it’s loud. It’s omnipresent.
That only makes everything worse.
I shut the door harder than intended and lean against it for a second, breathing heavily. My imagination continues to betray me.
I can see Mari kneeling in front of me, cheeks flushed, green eyes wide but trusting as I slowly wind soft rope around her wrists. She’s not frightened, just curious. Wanting it. Wanting me.
Her sundress slips from one shoulder, exposing her bare shoulder, and when her gaze lands on the rising erection tenting my pants, her expression turns hungry. I kiss her shoulder, her skin hot and soft as velvet.
The rope is rough in my fist as I palm myself through my pants. When I start to stroke, I imagine it’s Mari’s mouth on me, and the ridges of the rope intensify every sensation.
A low groan leaves my throat before I can stop it. “Fuck, Mari…”
The image of her head bobbing, her tongue stroking the length of my shaft, destroys what little control I have left. I can practically hear her breathing. Feel her squirming against me while I tell her how beautiful she is. How good.
I want to make her forget every Alpha in the Season.
My head falls back as I stroke myself faster, the fibers of the rope biting into my palm while my every thought centers on her. I imagine her gaze fixing on me as she sucks and licks. If only I could have her like this, on her knees, belonging only to me—
Electricity shoots down my spine, and my balls rise. Oh… Oh!
It doesn’t take long. I come hard enough to leave me shaking, chest heaving in the dim shed.
For a long moment, I stand there staring at the ceiling, rope tangled around my hand.
My pants are damp and sticking to me. And when the realization of what I did slams into me, all I can do is slide down the door and hold the rope close to my chest.
A sharp knock rattles the shed, and I nearly leap out of my skin. Dropping the rope, I scramble to my feet.
“Reece!” Derrick’s voice rings out behind the door. “You in there, Reece’s Pieces?”
Another knock, harder this time.
“Uh, yeah,” I answer and clear my throat. “Just getting things ready for the day.”
“Listen.” A pause. “You’re coming with me to the Lower Side tonight.”
I balk. “What? I-I—” I flinch and adjust myself in my pants.
“I don’t want to fucking hear excuses,” Derrick barks, the door rumbling at my back as he kicks it.
“Get your chores done early. Dress decent. Not in that white getup you wore the other night. We’re going out.
You need to get your head out of this place for a while and forget all about the Gardeners. ”
My protests fall on deaf ears.
We head toward the Lower Side a little before midnight, with Derrick walking a half step ahead of me like he always does when he wants me to remember who’s older.
The streets shift the farther we go, from clean lines and upper-tier glow to something noisier, looser, more alive in a way the Upper Side never is.
The roads crisscross in weird ways here, making it easy to get lost, but when we pass the familiar pawn shop and dimly lit motel, I know we’re close to Killian and Xavier’s bar, Nightshade.
Their sign cuts through the night like a bruise of light, all dark elegance that’s softened just slightly by the owl mascot in the logo, a subtle nod to their daughter’s influence.
I slow, and Derrick notices immediately. “Keep moving.”
“Can we stop here for a minute?” I ask. “Maybe…get a drink?”
“The line at Xala’s is probably already around the corner,” he gripes.
“Xala’s?” I ask. “Please don’t tell me that’s a strip club or a brothel of some kind.”
“A brothel?” He laughs, deep from his belly. “What, do you think we live in the nineteenth century or something? No, it’s a club.”
I let out a breath in relief. Not that I want to go to a club either; it’s not really my scene. But I’d take it over my brother trying to pawn off my virginity to a woman for hire.
“Well, if there’s already a line there, maybe we should get a drink now to make the wait less…boring.” I’m already walking toward the doors where the music is bleeding out in low, steady pulses. “Just one drink. Then we’ll go to Xala’s.”
“And you’ll dance. With a girl,” Derrick says. His eyes narrow.
“Sure, sure. One drink. It’ll be quick.” At least in Nightshade, I’ll be safer. I hope.
He snorts. “You don’t drink.”
“Not yet.”
The comment has my brother staring at me properly for the first time all night. “Fine,” he says at last with a smirk. “One drink, but it needs to be a strong one. Not some pussy beer or froufrou cocktail.”
I nod. “I can do that.”
“Oh, man. I need to see this.”
We go inside.
Nightshade is louder than it seems from the outside. Warmer, too. The kind of place that pretends it’s controlled chaos, but still lets it slip through the cracks anyway.
I like it here. I mean, I liked their old place, too—The Black Briar—the one time I visited, but this newer place is different.
Neon-purple light washes the bar and edges the ceiling, softening into dark wood booths and polished accents that make everything feel modern with a touch of sophistication.
Killian is behind the bar and his gaze finds me instantly. He nods toward the dark-haired man in the stool in front of him, and it isn’t until he half-turns and I see his profile that I recognize who it is.
Dominic Stockton.
“Oh shit,” I murmur. My stomach drops so fast I almost miss a step. What are the odds?
Derrick comes to my side. “What is it?”
My mind goes blank in the worst possible way. There’s no way to force even a half coherent sentence through my teeth.
Stockton lifts his glass like he’s done this a thousand times tonight. Killian says something low to him, and Stockton huffs a laugh.
Derrick elbows my arm to wake me up. “What is it?” he whispers harshly.
“N-nothing,” I say. “It’s nothing.”
“You’re so fucking weird.” He turns away from me and whistles low. “Fuck me.”
I follow his gaze to where a woman sits alone in one of the booths.
Blonde, composed, and looking bored as she waits.
It’s hard to tell what kind of denomination she is without being able to know her scent, but if I were to guess, I’d say she’s a Delta or a Gamma.
It doesn’t matter to Derrick, though. He’s locked onto her.
“Order me something,” he says without looking at me. “Make it good.”
I blink. “What?”
“Drink.” He waves at me in annoyance. “Doesn’t matter what. Something expensive.”
“I don’t have money for—”
“You know the owners, don’t you?” he cuts in. “Ask them to do you a solid. I’m going over there. You’ll survive five minutes without my supervision.”
Then he straightens his jacket and walks away. I watch him cross the room and slip into the edge of her booth like he belongs there. The girl looks up once, unimpressed.
Derrick sits anyway.
Of course he does.
Turning back to the bar, I tug at my sleeves and try to adjust my posture, pulling my shoulders back.
I don’t have the white tux or the mask this time, so I have no idea how to make myself look like someone who belongs in front of Dominic Stockton instead of someone who’s meant to scrub his toilets.
I also don’t have my prototype.