20. Marcus
MARCUS
The last person I expected to see anywhere near the shop is now storming toward me.
Jenna is saying something, but it doesn’t penetrate my ears, as I’m fully distracted by the menace walking in like he owns the place.
The first thing I notice is that Preston looks good—well, as good as he can, considering he’s visibly tense.
Possibly enraged.
A red blotch creeps up the fair skin of his neck, tinting his ears subtly.
Anger is good.
At least he’s not a ghost of himself like when I found him at the top of that cliff. High, disoriented, broken.
I’d rather see him bursting with his usual entitlement and anger than drowning in a sea of pain.
Not that I should give a damn about any of his moods, but apparently, I do—no matter how much I’ve attempted to deny it. At this point, it’s a complication I need to deal with.
Preston is a complication of epic proportions.
Someone I’m not sure how to stop from invading my thoughts non-consensually. At all times.
Like a fucking incurable chronic illness.
As he marches into the shop, it’s hard not to see just how much he doesn’t belong here.
He’s dressed in expensive jeans, an off-white sweater, and a knee-length camel-colored cashmere coat that could be smudged by the very air in the shop.
The town, even.
He should look like an eyesore in this place, but he’s just…majestic. Elegant without trying, beautiful to the point that it’s dazzling.
Some passersby on the street are glancing his way, probably without realizing it. He’s that irresistible.
The floppy golden hair parted to the side, the inquisitive green eyes, the defined set of his jaw, and the pure masculine energy he exudes are just effortlessly attention-grabbing.
I’ve always found Preston’s beauty mesmerizing. Since the time he dangled his feet while sitting on that branch in Dad’s garden.
It’s been fifteen years, but as he approaches me, I still think he’s the most beautiful specimen that ever walked the earth.
Fairy princes aren’t a mere figment of the imagination; they’re real, and Preston is the personification of those mythical beings.
Now, he’s more masculine and violent, but he still looks ethereal, possessing physical perfection. Tall, but not a giant, muscular, but not bulky, beautiful, but not soft. Looks approachable, but is actually headstrong, heartless, and sadistic.
Sometimes, like now, I feel like he’s not real. Just like that time when I mistook him for a fairy. It’s like he was supposed to belong to another universe but somehow slipped between the cracks and ended up here.
Right in front of me.
Like my untold birthday wish.
I find myself fantasizing about blinding each and every person who looks at him, plucking their eyes out, and bashing their heads in.
Excessive, maybe. But I’m at that point of no return, where I choose to fully embrace the complication.
There’s no point in fighting this pull I have toward Preston anyway, so I might as well soak it in, mold him into exactly what I want.
I slide my gaze from him to Jenna, pretending to erase him, though that’s impossible when his presence invades all my senses.
“It should be good to go,” I say. “If you hear the noise again, bring it back up and I’ll have a look to see if we need to change the wheel bearing.”
I can see Preston’s expression darkening in my peripheral vision.
Jenna, however, doesn’t seem to notice as she twirls her hair. “You can have another look now if you want. I have time to spare.”
“He doesn’t.” Preston slides to my side, so smoothly, I might add, and stops a step ahead of me, his shoulder slightly blocking me. “He said your car is good. Off you go.”
“Excuse me?” Jenna gawks at him, standing taller. “And who are you?”
He smiles, those dimples creasing his cheeks even as he wears an expression so fake, it’s dramatic. “A customer.”
She searches our surroundings, then glares. “I don’t see your car.”
“It’s a bike. Across the street.” He juts his chin in that direction.
So that’s the reason he’s here—to bring back the bike I returned to him.
Typical Preston. It’s on brand for him to throw a tantrum because I didn’t accept the toy he gave me.
“It looks new.” Jenna slides her gaze between the bike and him. “Why would you need a mechanic?”
“Your car looks functional, too. Why would you?”
I suppress a smile because he’s letting his pettiness self-manifest in waves at this point. I don’t think he even realizes it, but Preston choosing to stand in front of me and blocking me like some animal marking his territory is not a coincidence.
It means he’s also unable to resist this strange pull that’s blossomed between us.
But most importantly, it means he’s almost as territorial as I am.
Almost.
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” She hikes a hand on her hip. “Marcus is preoccupied with me, so you’ll have to wait your turn.”
“Preoccupied?” he repeats as he tilts his head in my direction, a manic edge creeping into his gaze. “Is that what’s going on?”
I lift a shoulder, casually wiping my hand with the rag. “As you can see.”
His eyes flash a frightening color, and his hand flexes, but as he’s about to move, I clutch his wrist and shake my head once.
The last thing I need is this menace murdering a customer in the shop. Taylor would kill me. Besides, Jenna doesn’t need to be collateral damage for Preston’s bouts of impulsive territorial acts of violence.
“Aren’t you leaving?” she says. “Wait for your turn outside like all customers.”
“Actually, I lied.” Preston’s smile turns downright evil. “I’m not a customer. I’m Marcus’s owner.”
“Owner?” she repeats incredulously as I stare at him with narrowed eyes, tapping my thumb against my middle finger.
He tilts his head to the side. “Did I stutter?”
“You can’t be someone’s owner.” She scoffs, her cheeks reddening.
“But I am.” He pulls his wrist from my grip and clutches my nape, his fingers tightening on the skin. “Marcus is mine.”
My lips part.
Did Preston actually say I’m his?
In public?
In front of a random stranger?
“And since he belongs to me, you should really, seriously, comprehensively think carefully before attempting to flirt with him again. I might have allowed it this time, but I don’t believe in second chances. Am I making myself clear?”
Jenna’s face blanches.
It’s not really his words, but the way he said them with an unfeeling, dead tone. His features have also morphed into a deeply manic expression, exuding bloodlust that could scare anyone away.
Anyone but me, obviously, because I’m suppressing a smile.
Jenna mumbles something about sending payment later, then practically flees. The tires of her car screech as she speeds away.
“Yeah, run away,” he mutters. “I’d better not see your face here again.”
“Will you be stalking me to make sure she doesn’t come back?” I ask.
Preston blinks, his bloodlust swiftly disappearing, but not the anger. No. That overflows from him like lava as he tightens his grip on my nape.
“You.” He narrows his eyes. “How dare you send the bike back, then pull this stunt?”
“I sent the bike back because we’re not in a relationship, so I won’t accept anything from you. As for the stunt, I’m not sure what you’re talking about. I was working.”
“You were not working. You were all over Ms. Pick Me just now.”
“And?”
His lips part before he purses them again, his eyes reddening as he slides his hand from my nape to my throat and shoves me back.
I hit the wall, and he slams a hand above my head, caging me in. He fixes me with a hard, burning stare, his lip lifting in a quiet snarl. “What the fuck did you just say?”
“And? You have hearing problems, my prince?”
“You think you can go around flaunting yourself and flirting like a cheap whore while messing with me, Marcus?”
“I don’t see why not. We’re not exclusive last I checked, and we can’t be.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because you have a habit of ignoring and ghosting me whenever you feel like it, and I will not be exclusive with someone like that.”
He steps into my space, close enough that I feel his breath. And it’s…intoxicating. This closeness, the way he smells like fucking cedar and damnation.
I could inhale him for hours.
Days.
Months.
Fuck. This complication continues to grow in ways I could never have anticipated, completely blindsiding me.
It’s dangerous.
“You think I want to be exclusive with you?” His voice lowers to a gruff, threatening tone. “Know your fucking place.”
“I do know my place, but do you?” I grab a fistful of his hair and yank his head back so that I’m staring down at him.
“You don’t get to show up at my workplace uninvited, play some territorial game, call me yours, then pretend none of it happened.
You might believe you have the upper hand because you come from money and have some secret organization and your daddy behind you, but not with me. You don’t.”
“You sure about that?”
“Positive. I eat guys like you for breakfast.”
“Guys like me?” Fire flashes in his eyes as he chokes me tighter. “You dare to compare me to others?”
“Just like you dared to compare our kiss to others.” I tug on his hair. “Doesn’t feel so good to be on the receiving end, does it?”
“You fucking—”
“Shh.” I place a finger on his mouth, then use my grip on his hair to slam him against me.
And fuck.
Fucking hell.
The feel of him pressed all over me sends a rush of pleasure through my veins. It’s so overwhelming, I briefly close my eyes to savor it.
When I open them again, Preston’s watching me with parted lips, his grip on my throat loosening, and I can’t help the smirk that lifts the corner of my mouth.
“Seems like you missed me, baby.”
“In your dreams.”
“I don’t need dreams when…” I rub my awakening cock against his growing bulge. “Your dick is so excited to see me. Mmm, you’re getting so hard so fast.”
“Shut—”
His words are cut off when I pull him to the side, then shove him inside the small storage room that also doubles as a locker room.
Some brooms and cleaning supplies fall to the floor as we crowd the space. It’s kind of tiny, especially for two tall, bulky hockey guys.