Chapter 6
six
The things I do for my family should be studied by professionals.
Well. Professionals other than my partner.
Atlas has spent the better part of the last ten years parsing my particular sense of familial duty. Calling it “exceedingly entrenched” and “fascinatingly central.”
Meaning, basically, that the Blackwood name—and all it stands for—make up the unfortunate foundation of who I am.
No shit.
By the time I sought professional help, I barely knew who I was anymore. Gideon Blackwood, the only legitimate “alpha” grandson of Forsyth Blackwood? Heir to our company and ruler of the world?
Or just Gideon—an omega. Someone who had never had the courage to tell his family his true designation. A man who carefully covered himself in fake scents, took inadvisable growth supplements, and worked his body half to death in the gym just to pass as an alpha.
What was true? The view reflected back at me by everyone else? Or the person I hid?
Atlas—or, as I knew him, Dr. Varma—was supposed to help me figure that out. Instead, I left my first official therapy session more confused than ever.
Not only was Atlas very obviously the exact sort of alpha I’d always wanted to be… he was a fucking wet dream. Gorgeous, chiseled, serious, empathetic, and intelligent.
I walked out of his office with an electric hum in my veins. Dread curling in my gut.
Because, God. Not only was I not an alpha. Now I was falling for one. Attracted to the very qualities I spackled on like makeup each day.
After going back to my dorm and stroking my cock to the thought of his muscled forearms and steady dominance, I convinced myself I was projecting.
I wasn’t actually into the broad-shouldered alpha with dark, solemn eyes—I was just so twisted up over not being like him, it had manifested in this insane sexual desire…
Which seemed like an even greater cause for therapy.
So I went back the next day.
And the next.
Until sometime about three weeks later, I found myself literally salivating at his feet. Absorbing every tick in his jaw while he unfastened his tweed trousers and let me lick his knot…
Yeah.
That seemed to settle the matter.
There was simply no denying how much I wanted him. Craved the approving weight of his palm on my shoulder. Fantasized about the sheer size of his body—the graceful strength that might overpower me without effort.
I never expected he had the same sorts of thoughts about me, in reverse.
Though, by now, he’s told me a million times how he felt ten feet tall when he caught me marveling at him.
That my need for praise and approval lit his blood on fire.
How he thought about my poise and quick wit for hours after each of our sessions.
Somewhere between my denial and his, we fell in love.
And he gave up everything—his career, his reputation, even outward control of our pack—for me. For that.
I’m not sure I’ve ever felt the weight of his sacrifices as much as I do today.
Atlas’s rich musk teeters between contented thoughtfulness and consternation. My poor man. Always wondering, always worrying. It’s what makes him so incredibly insightful—and keeps him three steps ahead.
“You’ll need a proper lunch,” he muses, scowling mildly. Behind him, Finn finally ambles out of the house, muttering curses under his breath. “I noticed you barely touched your breakfast.”
I wrap my fingers through Atlas’s, only resisting the urge to kiss the back of his hand because my dickhead best friend is now standing between us, pouting.
“And you need a massage later,” I counter, casting my alpha’s tight shoulders a pointed glance.
“You fell asleep in your reading chair three times this week. Now all this…”
And fucking me for three hours last night…
His answering half-smile is warm and knowing. Laced with appreciation I don’t deserve, given the fact that every one of his pains begins and ends with me.
“If you insist,” he murmurs, rubbing his lips across my forehead.
His agreement comes easily, but a steely undercurrent of alpha power laces every word. Shivers spark down my spine.
Jesus, he’s hot. So damn potent, in the most solid, silent way. True power—the kind that needs no bluster or bite, because it’s undeniable.
I used to covet it. I studied him for years, trying to figure out where his endless patience came from.
It astounded me; no matter how many times Finn landed on TMZ with his head up some model’s skirt…
or how many bedrooms Ryker destroyed in his wordless rages…
or how stubbornly I clung to the lie that I was our “pack alpha,” terrified to be honest with the rest of the world…
Atlas took it.
All our pain and the ways we tried to run from it—he wasn’t afraid. He didn’t judge. He simply stood in the center of our mess. The eye of every storm. A calm point for us to fix our gazes on while the rest of the world spiraled.
In a way, he saved every single one of us.
Yes, even Finn.
My best friend rolls his aqua eyes, throwing in a dramatic groan. “You guys are so cute. It makes my stomach hurt.”
Sure enough, the jackass has his well-groomed hand pressed to his diaphragm. I smirk at him, cocking my head. “That’s called jealousy, Finn.”
His flawless features glitch. “Dear God,” he mutters, his eyes wide and voice numb with horror. “Can you imagine if that were true?”
I shake my head at him, laughing until he flashes a grin that makes me want to snort. After nearly twelve years, my best friend is still the best-looking man I’ve ever met. Which doesn’t mean anything because he is, in fact, the best-looking man anyone has ever met.
Atlas sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose beneath his square glasses. “Finley. Manners.”
Ironically, with others, Finn has better manners than any of us.
He’s practically a professional socialite, at this point.
His reputation as a rogue with a dubious past is well-known; and yet he appears on just about every guest list there is.
Last week, for example, he randomly received an invitation to the queen’s upcoming birthday gala.
Seriously. How did he even do that?
I doubt Finn knows. His phone buzzes incessantly, and he scrunches his face at it, annoyed by his own popularity.
He probably posted a story about being bored tonight.
I bet, by the time they finish the task Cillian asked of me, my packmate will have fifty different offers for this evening’s entertainment. Atlas will veto forty-nine of them.
He might be a bit intense about my safety sometimes, but I secretly love it. Honestly, how could a guy not swoon when they find out their alpha has stocked a special Omega First-Aid Kit in each of our vehicles? Or that he keeps a careful log of my hormone spikes on his phone?
I squirm away from that thought, not wanting to picture my next heat. He was so wonderful during the last one… I’m not sure I’ll be able to continue turning down his offers to bond.
If I were his mate, this would be an easy, immediate yes. But claiming him like this? Knowing he could have a perfect scent-match out there somewhere?
How can I keep this man from anything that would make him happy?
He deserves everything.
Which is why I plan to try setting up a nest of my own while he’s out of the house today.
As long as I was pretending to be an alpha, it was safer not to keep one in our home, in case anyone ever caught wind of it. Domestics talked, after all, and my grandfather was definitely ruthless enough to pay people close to us for damning information.
That rationale sounded logical, right? Prudent?
Yeah, I thought so, too.
Which is why I never told Atlas the other, equally petrifying reason I never made us a nest of our own.
Namely, the fact that I don’t know how to. And my Omega sure as hell isn’t going to help me, since he sort of hates me and all.
Locking someone up for a decade tends to have that effect.
I’m going to try, though, okay? Today. And, yes, I might look like a total idiot. But Atlas deserves an omega who at least attempts to be normal, right?
Sensing the burnt undertone of my scent, Atlas squeezes my hand and sends a strong beat of controlled dominance over the circular gravel driveway.
Tension tweaks my insides as my Omega peers out from his hiding place beneath my ribs.
He hasn’t spoken to me in a long time—and, when he does, he normally just gives me shit.
But… Atlas.
Atlas is his moon, sun, and every last star.
Our alpha peers into my eyes, penetrating deep enough to reach the small, silent voice I broke. He still sees him, buried under all my bullshit. And he loves us both.
Without a word, he lowers his lips to mine, kissing us long and slow, before he steers our sulking packmate into his Audi. My Omega doesn’t reply, but a heavy, solid sort of dread settles around him as we watch the SUV rev to life.
As if wordlessly warning me that this “one last” mission? Is only the beginning.