13. Tristan
13
TRISTAN
The sky is a symphony of pastels as the sun rises on this cool Spring morning—ribbons of pink and gold stretching across the horizon, breaking through the last vestiges of night. The glass of my bedroom’s large windows is cool to the touch, fogging slightly from my proximity. Birds are singing their morning song, distant and muted through the thick glass.
Taking a sip of my coffee—black, no sugar—the bitter warmth slides down my throat. I hold still as the door to my bedroom opens. No knock, just the smooth whisper of expensive wood against carpet.
“Dec,” I murmur, not looking away from the view of the sunrise. My reflection in the glass shows the tension in my shoulders, betraying the casualness of my tone. “Decided knocking wasn’t for you?”
“What are you doing?” he asks, coming closer after closing the door. His voice carries that particular edge it always has after he’s indulged himself—self-satisfied, almost smug.
“Thinking.” The coffee mug warms my palms as I stare at the landscape beyond the glass. The estate stretches for acres, our private kingdom hidden from the world.
“About the omega?”
“No.” The lie is obvious, hanging in the air between us like smoke. I turn to face him, eyes narrowed, taking in his appearance fully. “Why do you look so smug?” I already know the answer, have known it since he walked in carrying her scent on his skin, but I need to hear him say it. “You’ve been with her already?”
“Tarquin brought her to me last night to punish her.” His voice is casual, as if discussing the weather rather than what must have been a display of dominance and submission.
I move closer, intrigued despite myself. The rich carpet muffles my footsteps, the space between us charged with unspoken competition. My bedroom—usually a sanctuary of clean lines and masculine elegance—feels suddenly too small for both our egos. “What for?”
Declan shrugs. “Who the fuck knows, or cares? That’s between Tarq and her to figure out.” There’s a dismissiveness to his tone that reminds me of his particular brand of cruelty—a disinterest in motives or consequences, only in the moment itself.
“What did you do to her?” I ask lightly, but he can probably hear my heart thudding in my chest. The coffee in my hand has cooled, forgotten as I study my pack mate’s expression.
His smile is sinful, spreading slowly across his face like spilled ink. Something predatory gleams in his eyes—satisfaction mixed with something darker. “Let’s just say she can be very obedient with the right tools.”
My cock springs to life at the thought of it, an involuntary reaction I curse inwardly. “I bet,” I mutter and turn back to the window, envious that Tarquin has left Declan off his leash already and not me. The garden beyond the glass seems less vibrant now, my focus turned inward, to the primal instincts I usually keep so carefully controlled.
“Go to her,” Declan says slyly. “Go to her room and ravage her before she has even woken up properly.”
“Not my style. I will wait until Tarquin gives her to me.” My voice is controlled, measured. The mug in my hand might crack under the pressure of my grip.
“You’re fucking joking?” he murmurs, surprised. “How are you so restrained?”
Turning back to him, I take another sip of my coffee. The liquid is lukewarm now, unpleasant on my tongue. “Years of practice, and someone has to be around here because it certainly isn’t you.”
I watch Declan’s face twist with amusement, the kind that always makes me wary. There’s a wildness to him that’s both magnetic and disturbing—like watching a predator and knowing you’re too close for safety. He’s unpredictable at the best of times, dangerous at the worst.
“Restraint is overrated. I made her sit on my cock completely still. Like a sex doll. Not a sound, not a movement. Just taking her while Tarquin watched.” His words are deliberately provocative, designed to crack my composure.
My grip on the coffee mug tightens, the ceramic edges pressing painfully into my palm. “Is that right?” The words emerge clipped, controlled, though inside, something snarls and paces.
“And she did it. Perfect obedience.” There’s a note of genuine admiration in his voice, rare enough to be noteworthy. Declan respects little and values even less.
I turn back to the window, not wanting him to see the effect his words are having on me. The sky has shifted now, the pink fading to a clearer blue as morning takes hold. I haven’t even seen this omega yet. I’ve refused to investigate, having holed up in my room since after my conversation with Tarquin yesterday morning. I don’t want to know. Not yet. Anticipation has its own particular flavour, one I’ve learned to savour.
I take another sip of coffee, grimacing at its temperature. “Fascinating. Is she getting under your skin?”
His laughter is sharp, cutting through the quiet of the morning. “Not a chance.”
“Funny how I don’t believe you.” The words hang between us, a challenge neither of us is willing to fully acknowledge. I face him again, wanting to see his reaction to that.
He sticks his middle finger up, the crude gesture at odds with the luxury surrounding us. “Funny how I don’t give a shit. Be the good boy, Tris. She probably needs it.”
He leaves my room, closing the door loudly. The sound echoes, momentarily disturbing the peace of the morning. I glare at it, pissed off beyond reason. The mug in my hand is in danger of shattering; I set it down on the nearby desk with deliberate care.
Just because I’m not some psychotic maniac, doesn’t mean I’m good. It gets to me when he says shit like that, when he reduces my self-control to weakness, my strategy to softness. I know that’s why he does it, and I know getting annoyed by it encourages him to keep riling me up. He’s a prick, but at the same time, he might be onto something. Between his lunacy and Tarquin’s ice-king persona, maybe she does need a friendly face around here.
Smiling, I turn back to the window. Being a chameleon has always been easy for me. Blend in. Be what you want them to be. It opens doors, gets you where you need to be. The art of adaptation—watching, learning, becoming whatever the situation demands.
Growing up where I did, on the outskirts of Tarquin’s fancy life, but being friends just the same, was painful. My mother was his parents’ housekeeper. Still is. The divide between us was vast—his world of privilege and polish, mine of service and struggle. But it got me in a position to watch him. Watch his parents at their lavish parties and see how they conducted themselves. The smiles. The handshakes. The pretence of it all.
I learned quickly that people respond to what they want to see. They see what confirms their expectations and what aligns with their desires. The omega in our home right now probably thinks Declan is some kind of monster and Tarquin is a cold-hearted businessman. Both are true. So she does need someone to be more open, more caring. A counterbalance to their harshness, a respite from their demands.
Heading for the shower, I strip off my tee and joggers and step under the hot spray, leaning my forehead against the cool tiles. Water cascades over my shoulders and down my back, steam rising to fog the glass enclosure. The torrent is needed to clear my head, to adopt the persona of the alpha this omega needs me to be. The Seducer. Listening intently, smiling, soft touches, whispers of promises I have no intention of keeping but that she needs to hear to feel safe. Comforted.
My cock hardens at the thought of her—this omega who has already submitted to both Tarquin and Declan. I wonder what she looks like, how she tastes, what sounds she makes when she comes. I stroke myself slowly under the shower spray, imagining her mouth around me, her eyes looking up at me as I fuck her face.
I force myself to stop, turning the water colder. The shock of it is immediate and needed. I need to be focused for this first meeting. Unlike my pack mates, I understand the value of a proper introduction. First impressions matter. They set the tone, establish expectations, and create the foundation for what follows. And what follows will be entirely on my terms.
After drying off, I dress carefully in dark jeans and a light grey tee that shows off the hard planes of my body. The fabric clings just enough to highlight the results of my disciplined training regimen without seeming deliberate. I run my fingers through my damp blonde hair, leaving it artfully tousled—casual, approachable, the kind of style that invites fingers to slide through it.
The morning light streams through the windows, illuminating the room in a golden glow. Everything is in place—my appearance, my strategy, my mindset. I am the counterpoint to my pack mates’ extremes, the balance to their chaos and coldness. Where they take, I will give. Where they demand, I will ask. Where they break, I will soothe.
Until I don’t.
Somewhere in this mansion, behind one of these many doors, is an omega who has already endured Tarquin’s calculated dominance and Declan’s wild intensity. Soon, she will meet my particular brand of control.
I move to the window one last time, watching as the gardeners begin their work, tiny figures in the distance, maintaining the illusion of perfection that surrounds us. This estate, like everything else in our lives, is a carefully constructed front—beautiful, impressive, and hiding innumerable secrets beneath its polished surface.
Like me.
My approach has always been more subtle, more insidious, perhaps. I don’t need to dominate through force or fear. I prefer to be invited in, welcomed, desired.
It’s a different kind of power, but no less complete.
The reflection that stares back at me from the mirror is exactly what I want her to see—good-looking, approachable, safe. My features are classically handsome, my jaw strong but not severe like Tarquin’s, my eyes warm where Declan’s burn. I practice my smile, softening it at the edges, making sure it reaches my eyes. The perfect mask for the perfect scenario.
What a beautiful lie.