26. Syn
26
SYN
The water laps at my chin as we sit in silence. I have nothing to say. I think he does, but won’t.
He surprises me when he says, “I am sorry, Syn. I will protect you.”
“Ugh,” I spit out and rise from the water, sloshing some of it over the side of the tub. “Stop it. Just stop it.”
Tristan stands quickly and grabs a towel. He wraps it around me, but I push him aside to get out of the bath myself. I’m sore, but I’ll fucking live. God only knows the pain in my soul is worse.
Marching with my wet feet back into the bedroom, he lets the water out before he follows me. Before I can say anything, he wraps his arms around me, pulling me close, inhaling my scent, forcing me to inhale his as it deepens with lust. I struggle in his grip, but he holds me tighter.
“I’m not letting you go.”
“You have to. In a few days, I’m out of here. Job done.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it,” he growls.
“You don’t get a say,” I snap. “This is my life, my work, my problem.”
He freezes but doesn’t comment on my slip. Freudian? Maybe.
“Don’t you get it, Syn. You are mine. This scent, fuck, it does things to me that no other omega ever has.”
“Well, fucking gee. Exactly what I want to hear.”
He chuckles. “Sorry, that was a bit tactless. I just mean… fuck. You are my match. I know it. I want you. I need you. I’m not letting you go.”
“No!” I say, shoving him back from me. “No! You don’t get to say things like that to me. I am a place your prime alpha hired to stick your dick in. You are telling me things you think I want to hear. You are conforming to meet what you think my needs are. You have no idea and no right to manipulate me. I know your kind. All charm and no follow through. Believe me,” I add bitterly.
My breath comes in ragged pants and avoid his gaze, which is intent on me.
“It’s not an empty promise,” he says quietly.
“It is, though! You don’t know me. You have fucked me twice and we have never had a conversation.”
“We are having one now.”
“Ohhh, well, that makes it all-fucking-right then, doesn’t it? You know me completely now, warts and all.”
He steps into my space and cups my face. “You are my mate, whether you like it or not.”
“Well, I don’t like it. I don’t believe it. Declan and Tarquin? What about them? Are you going to split from your pack over this? Over me?”
He hesitates, and it’s all I needed to ground me in reality and not the lies he is telling me.
“Exactly,” I whisper and turn from him.
“Syn—”
“No. We aren’t doing this. You are a job, nothing more.”
Hurt flashes across his features, but I can’t let myself fall for it. I have a job to do, one that is everything in order to get my daughter back. Even now, I have to have hope I can talk Jeremy around with two million right in front of him, ready to transfer.
The door opens and Tarquin steps inside. His face like thunder. He sees me dripping on his expensive carpet, but doesn’t react outwardly. He is probably seething inside.
I don’t give a flying fuck, though. He can be as much of a dick as he wants, as long as I get my money.
“Leave us,” he states.
Tristan glowers at him. “We weren’t done here.”
“Yes, we were,” I mutter.
He glares at me.
“Go,” Tarquin says in a tone that leaves my insides like ice.
With a furious growl, Tristan leaves, slamming the door behind him. I flinch at the sound, Tarquin doesn’t move a muscle.
“Come to finish the job?” I ask.
His icy eyes darken slightly. “I owe you a very sincere apology, Ms Fuller, for my behaviour downstairs. All of our behaviour.”
My stomach drops to my feet in shock before shooting back up and making me lightheaded. “The great Sir Tarquin Brayfield apologising. Lucky me.”
“I will ignore your sarcasm in favour of making my regret known to you again. Things got out of hand.”
“Is that what you call it?”
“You infuriate me with your attitude,” he practically snarls.
“And he’s back. Look, Tarq,” I say, knowing it will piss him off even more. I’m not wrong. “You don’t owe me shit except the two million we agreed on. I have been used, abused and disfigured while I’ve been here and that’s fine. It’s my job.”
He frowns fiercely. “Disfigured?”
I blink and realise I may have overstated that somewhat. “It’s nothing.”
“Show me,” he demands, coming closer, but maintaining a distance that is vital for both of us right now.
“I said, it’s nothing.”
“It wasn’t a request,” he growls.
Sighing heavily to show my exasperation, I untuck the towel and let it drop slightly to show the cut on my side.
He hisses and comes close enough for his scent to wash over me. Before I can cover up, he touches it, and I flinch. He trails his fingers down the length of the cut. “Declan.”
“Who the fuck else?” I step back and wrap the towel around me. “But it’s what you offered me another million for, right?”
He shakes his head, sorrow filling his eyes for a fraction of a second before the mask falls back in place. “I offered you the money to help him deal with his demons, not so he could cut you.”
“And use me as paint for his art.”
“What?” he growls. It’s low, deeper than his usual anger, bordering on manically possessive.
“I said, it’s nothing. It’s my job.”
“You keep saying that,” he says, trying to rein in his temper.
My eyes widen, and I scoff. “What did you expect? That I let alphas fuck me because I like it? Because it’s my calling to work in servitude for a bunch of entitled pricks who think I owe them something? Or because I’m a greedy gold digger using my cunt to manipulate money out of the rich and growly?” I sit gingerly on the bed and push aside the fact that the last one isn’t far wrong.
Tarquin’s eyes narrow at my outburst, his jaw clenching visibly. For a moment, he simply stares at me, and I wonder if I’ve finally pushed him too far.
“Why do you do it then?” he asks quietly, his voice controlled in a way that suggests he’s working very hard to keep it that way.
I look away, unable to meet his penetrating gaze. “Does it matter? I’m not your problem to fix.”
“You are making it my problem when you bring illegal substances into my house,” he states.
My blood runs cold. “It was you.”
“Declan, actually. You are lucky he didn’t confront you himself. He has a sore spot for shit like this.” He reaches into the pocket of his fancy pants and throws the injections on the bed next to me. “Tell me, Ms Fuller. Were they for Rob or for us?”
I frown. “Rob?”
He rolls his eyes, and I baulk at the action. “Lord Robert Ranier.”
“Oh,” I mumble. “Yes, I got them for him.”
“Why?”
“He has asked a few times to have me during my heat. It is over five weeks away. I needed it to happen sooner.”
“For the money?”
“It’s none of your business,” I say stiffly.
Tarquin’s expression hardens, his eyes growing colder than I’ve ever seen them. “When you bring illegal substances into my home, it becomes my business.”
I clutch the towel tighter around me, shivering despite the warmth of the room. “I wasn’t going to use them here.”
“Weren’t you?” His voice is dangerously quiet. “The temptation wouldn’t have been too great, when you realised how much more we might pay for a heat-addled omega?”
The accusation stings because there’s truth in it—not for them, but the money was always the goal. Always for Amélie.
“You don’t know anything about me,” I whisper, my voice cracking.
“I know enough,” he counters. “I know you’re desperate for money. I know you’re willing to risk your health with dangerous substances to get it. What I don’t know is why.”
My laugh is hollow, bitter. “Why does anyone need money? To live.”
“Two million pounds is far beyond living expenses,” he says, his gaze never leaving mine. “What are you running from, Synthia?”
For a moment, I almost tell him. The words press against my lips—about Jeremy, about Amélie, about years of extortion and pain. But I swallow them back. Trust is a luxury I can’t afford.
“Nothing that concerns you,” I reply, lifting my chin. “Will you be reporting me to the authorities?”
Tarquin studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. The injections lie next to me on the bed, a damning piece of evidence that could destroy everything.
“I should,” he says finally. “Heat inducers are illegal for a reason. They’ve killed omegas, caused permanent hormonal damage.”
My heart hammers against my ribs, but I keep my face neutral. “So why don’t you?”
“An omega like you won’t last a day behind bars.”
I clench my jaw and lift my chin higher. “I can take care of myself, thank you very much.”
“See, that’s the thing. You think you can, but there is a big, horrendous world out there that you have only just scratched the surface of, Ms Fuller.”
“And you would know this how?”
“I have seen and heard things that will give you nightmares.”
“Are you the drug version of the bogeyman? Sent to tell errant omegas not to take inducers to earn cash.”
His hand closes around my throat before I’d even registered he’d moved. “Stop with the fucking attitude, Ms Fuller. Or I will make sure you end up with a maximum sentence in Prescott and that Betty makes you her bitch.”
I swallow, despite the hand around my throat. Prescott is where the serious criminals end up. I don’t even want to know who Betty is. “It’s all I’ve got,” I croak.
He stares into my eyes and loosens his hold slightly. “What is?”
“My attitude. It’s all I’ve got.”
He releases me and steps back. He scoops up the injections and tightens his fist around them. “You don’t have to tell me why you need the money. But you are walking a very fine line, Ms Fuller. Don’t cross it or you will see what my wrath really looks like.”
“It’s been pretty sincere up until now.”
He fires off a warning growl, one meant to get me to submit. The omega inside me withers and I lower my chin, despising myself and him. He pockets the injections with deliberate movements.
“Get dressed,” he says, his voice marginally softer. “We’ll be having dinner in an hour. I expect you to join us.”
“I’m not hungry,” I lie, though my stomach immediately betrays me with a quiet growl.
His mouth quirks slightly. “I’m not paying you to eat, Ms Fuller. I’m paying for your presence. Seven o’clock, downstairs.”
Then he’s gone, leaving me alone with my thoughts, my fears, and the growing realisation that I’m running out of options. I need another plan, fast. Three million pounds in five days seems impossible now, especially when I’ve managed to antagonise the one man who could help me reach even my original goal.
I dress slowly, wincing at every movement. My body aches in places I didn’t know could ache, my soul even more so. The mirror reflects a woman I barely recognise—eyes too haunted, posture too defeated.
“Pull yourself together,” I whisper to my reflection. “For Amélie.”
My daughter’s name gives me strength. It always has. I straighten my shoulders and take a deep breath. I have five days to figure this out, or I’m screwed.