Chapter 3
THREE
THE MASKED MAN
It’s not breaking and entering if I have the omega’s best interests in mind, I told myself for the thousandth time as I stepped out of my parked car, pulled the knit balaclava mask over my head, and made the now-familiar trek to his apartment building.
Well. It was breaking and entering, but I wasn’t doing it to watch him sleep or sniff his underwear or anything disturbed like that. My reasons were noble and for his own good. Justified, even.
Yeah, and an alcoholic can stop drinking any time. Sure, Jan.
The weather was still unnaturally warm for Plover Bay, even in the wee hours of the mid-July morning. My footsteps were muted, accompanied only by a distant car alarm. I walked up the sidewalk alongside his building, hands tucked in my pockets and hood pulled low to obscure my face even more.
The apartment complex—located in a frankly unacceptable part of town for a single omega like him to live in alone—didn’t have a security system, but nowadays almost everybody had a doorbell camera. I had to be careful everywhere I went.
I'd done my best work in an effort to scare him away from dangerous men. I’d followed him to his car, showed up outside his apartment, and lurked in the background while he grocery shopped.
I intended to drive the omega away from lingering chats with Weber and into the safe confines of his apartment until my target was dead.
Yeah, that’s why we’ve been following him, my alpha snarked.
Anyway.
It seemed I’d miscalculated because now the omega asked Weber to walk him to his car after work—for safety—and to even follow him home. All of which put him in far more danger than he’d been in before, which was entirely my fault.
So, it was my responsibility to fix it.
It wasn’t breaking my rule to not be a hero if I was just undoing the damage I’d caused. I didn’t blame the omega. Weber was charming and skilled at disarming his victims, in the way so many predators were.
Hell, he’d even talked his way out of a police interview—not that they were the shining example of investigative prowess.
But he couldn't hide from me, and it would be on my shoulders if anything happened, which meant I had to keep a close watch.
Just until Weber was dead, of course.
I would’ve cut his throat by now and washed my hands of the omega, but my target had turned out to be something of a social butterfly, with the same handful of “friends” staying at his apartment at all hours every night that week.
All of them were on my list to look into further.
I walked along the front of the run-down building, skirting around the glow of the porch lights—the ones that worked, anyway—illuminating every other door. A12, A11, A10… I counted down.
Frankly, the idea that a monster like Weber would actually care enough to protect the omega pissed me off. He didn’t even care enough to perform concern. It was clear in his dismissive actions, like checking his phone instead of watching until the boy was safely inside.
I would walk him to his door.
A9…
I would make sure no one waited inside before leaving him alone.
A8…
I would—
I halted. A7.
There was one window that I presumed opened into the bedroom, but metal bars covered every ground-floor window, which left the door as my only point of entry.
Easy peasy.
Fishing my folding lock-picking set from my pocket, I pressed my ear to the door. Silence.
Good, my alpha huffed. No nighttime visitors.
I shook my head. The sooner I killed Weber, the sooner I could move on from whatever weird attachment I’d formed to the boy before it clouded my judgement.
Yeah, it would be a shame for that to happen…
With one last check to confirm no one was watching, I knelt, ready to pick the lock, only for the damn knob to turn and open without any coaxing at all.
Steam nearly billowed out of my ears.
What was he thinking? Did he not lock his doors? Why would he do something so stupid? I wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. This was worse than wearing headphones while walking through a dark parking lot.
Anybody could just waltz right in. There were so many weirdos out there. I could be a psycho, or a murderer.
Well, I was, but I wasn’t there to murder him.
Exasperated, I blew out a heavy sigh. If he asked me to watch over him…
I would make sure he fucking locked his front door at night.
Pushing it open, the door caught on a makeshift lock made out of a hanger attached to a bungee cord. Reaching around, I unhooked the rope from the knob and slid inside.
When I tried to lock the door behind me, however, the mechanism merely spun around and around, explaining the jerry-rigging.
My alpha bristled. So, the omega wasn’t careless; he was just subject to the whims of the complex’s maintenance worker.
I made a mental note to look up who that was, and maybe even pay them a visit.
Now inside, I paused. The apartment was sparsely furnished and smelled of damp, old carpet. I wrinkled my nose. It overpowered his toasted vanilla scent.
Thankfully, nothing stirred, and the lights were off. He must be asleep.
On silent feet I paced down the hall, following his scent. I passed an open bathroom door, and halted on the threshold of the only other room in the apartment. It had to be…
Yes. The bedroom.
His scent concentrated here. Saliva filled my mouth at the overwhelming aroma of sweet, warm omega. Overlapping currents of so many emotions and sensations were in this room: peace, worry, stress, mirth, desire, lust, exhaustion. They permeated his home.
His nest, my alpha rumbled. We’re in his nest.
There was just enough light filtering in from the street lamps outside to see without a flashlight. Tucked into a twin mattress pushed up against the far wall, the omega slept, a mess of blonde hair peeking out of the covers and face smooshed into his pillow while he breathed deeply, undisturbed.
I stared, gaze caught on his relaxed face while the covers shifted up and down, up and down, up and down. It calmed something in me to see him safe and at peace. I hadn’t realized how agitated I’d become over the unlocked front door.
The omega huffed a sleepy noise and squirmed under the blankets. My alpha’s ears perked up, head cocked. He liked that noise. What others would he make if we—
I shook my head. No. I was not here to be a fucking creep.
Scanning the room, I noted the only personal details I’d found so far—a series of picture frames carefully set atop his dresser.
They were all of him at different ages posing with a petite blonde woman who shared his blinding smile.
In one, he was a chubby toddler dressed as Batman, cradled on her hip.
In another, he was an awkward teen wearing glasses too big for his face, who clearly didn’t want his picture taken.
The woman’s arm was around his shoulders, and he held a trumpet in front of him.
And in the center, he wore a graduation cap and gown, cheeks still round with baby fat and full of youth but with the sad eyes of someone beyond his years.
He stood next to a hospital bed, clutching the woman’s hand while she smiled even though she clearly didn’t have the strength to sit up on her own.
I looked away. For the very first time in my years of hunting, guilt weighed heavily on my shoulders.
Max Mayweather wasn’t a target. He had not invited me into his private space and didn’t deserve to have that violated. Those pictures weren’t for me to see.
I took a deep, silent breath to center myself. This is for his own good, I repeated. Just a few more minutes, and I’d be gone, and he’d be none the wiser that a predator lurked in his most personal space.
I spied his phone on the nightstand. Silently, I stepped over the laundry basket containing what smelled like clean clothes and unplugged it from the charger. He made a sleepy sound and rolled over, facing the wall.
Shit. How was I going to get a Face ID now? Holding the light up to his face was already a risk.
On a whim, I swiped down on his phone just to see if I could access the menu… yes! No password necessary. Interesting.
I toggled the brightness to the lowest setting, and then took stock. The bed was narrow enough that I could probably reach over and unlock full access to the phone without waking him, if I was careful.
I am not a creep, I am not a creep, I am not a creep, I repeated, hovering like the fucking grim reaper. Leaning down, I braced my weight on the wall above his head and held the phone in front of his face, waiting for it to unlock.
He smells freshly washed, my alpha groaned. Clean and ready for our—
I squeezed my eyes shut. My breath ghosted across the tufts of his hair peeking out over the sheets, and he made another quiet, breathy sound, shifting under the covers.
The phone vibrated, prompting a password. Shit.
I cleared the screen and tried again. No luck. I pushed off the wall to step away from him, afraid he’d sense someone so close, but my hand slipped, squeaking down the landlord’s special eggshell white paint.
I caught myself just before landing on him. The omega inhaled, quick and sharp.
Shit!
I heaved myself up, backpedaling from the bed. He rolled over again, this time on his back, head tipped toward me. I stood stock still, afraid to move lest he open his eyes and see me. For several minutes I waited, tense and on edge, until his breathing evened out again.
Tiptoeing back over, I made sure the brightness was still on low before holding the phone in front of his face one more time.
Bingo.
Out in the hallway where I could hear if he stirred but far enough so the light from our phones wouldn’t wake him, it was only a matter of a few taps, adding myself as a contact named Pizza-W.
84th—because who doesn’t have a random pizza place in their phone?
—and sharing his location before the phone was back on the charger, like nothing had ever happened.
Now, I could watch over him without dogging his every step. Until Joseph Weber was dead, of course. Then I’d stop the location sharing and walk away.
My alpha snarled.
I took one last look at him, sleeping peacefully. It was probably the only time I’d ever be close enough to scent him without the cloying tang of fear marring his base notes.
Which was the way it should be. The way it had to be.
On my way out of his room, however, I caught the faintest whiff of something else.
Someone else.
The omega’s hamper was full, due for a wash. His work uniform sprawled on top, partially spilling over the side. I reached down, fingering the sleeve, before lifting it to my nose.
Steam, sweat, and fryer grease were the most pungent. A few other things, too, probably from the people he worked with. It was easy to accidentally brush up against someone in a cramped restaurant kitchen.
But even through the mask, I could smell him. Weber.
That piece of shit had touched the omega’s arm.
I gritted my teeth, ignoring the surge in unnamed emotions it gave me. This was ridiculous. The omega was a nuisance. A hassle. A hazard of my job, and proof of why I didn’t get involved beyond removing the Joseph Webers from the world.
I shouldn’t give a fuck what, or who, his work uniform smelled like. I’d meddled too much, and now I stood in an innocent omega’s bedroom sniffing his clothes.
Realizing I’d mashed his sleeve against my masked cheek to cover up the offending smell, I cast it back in the hamper and left the apartment without a backward glance.
And the fact that I waited up all night, parked at the very back of the lot, until the omega left for work had absolutely nothing to do with him or his broken door. I just wanted to make sure the location tracking worked properly.
That was all.