Rhett
“Are you sure you have everything?”Myrick flits around our bed, vanishing into the bathroom, then darting to the closet. A swirl of his clean spring scent lingers in his wake, and I draw it in. He always smells stronger when he’s anxious. Which, lately, is always.
“I have everything,” I say calmly, but he doesn’t hear me. Or refuses to.
He reappears a moment later with one of my dress shirts draped over his arm and a handful of pocket squares clutched to his chest like precious jewels.
“Just in case,” he mutters, moving toward the duffle bag I’d already packed. He’s not talking to me—he’s talking to himself. It’s his way. When he’s nervous, he busies his hands, fusses, plans, rearranges the world until it feels manageable again.
His usually impeccable hair is fluffed up in the back, and he’s wearing oversized silk pajama bottoms with one of my black t-shirts hanging off his shoulders like it was madefor someone twice his size. The shirt swallows him whole, but I can still see the long, lean lines of his frame underneath.
This version of him—the frazzled, pajama-wearing chaos sprite—is my favorite. It’s him in his most raw and tender form.
“Beta,” I murmur as I watch him dig out a suitcase from under the bed. Dolly, our tiny white Maltese, lifts her head as he unceremoniously drops it beside her. “I don’t need an overnight bag.”
“I want you to be prepared,” he argues, brushing past me. His tone has thatsnapit gets when he’s pretending not to worry. “You said last night that the black market moves around. That it never stays in one place.” He yanks the zipper back with azzzzzzrkthat makes my ears twitch. “If it’s that unpredictable, then who knows what you’ll walk into? You could be gone fordays.” He cuts a look at the flyer on the dresser like it personally offended him. “That location could be a rally point. Or a trap. Or…or a diversion. We don’tknow.”
He grips the top of the suitcase, but I place my hand on it, not letting him open the damn thing.
“Look at me,” I say quietly, but my voice leaves no room for argument.
His eyes meet mine, hesitant, still wound tight. I cup his cheek with my other hand, grounding him with my touch.
“Everything is going to be okay.” I try to push reassurance through the bond, but I’m not sure he can feel it.
Betas don’t always connect with alphas the same way omegas do. While Myrick has my mating bite on his neck, our mental bond has never been great. On a good day, I can catch whispers of his emotion. Today? It’s silence. Frustrating silence.
Still, I canseeit all in his eyes. The worry. The love. The helplessness.
“The black market is near Stalken,” I say softly, tracing my thumb along his cheekbone. His skin is smooth after a morning shave. “I’ll fly in, take a car a few hours east, pick up our omega, and be home before dawn.”
Myrick shakes his head, clearly unconvinced. “She’ll beexhausted,Rhett.” He stays stiff in my hand, not melting into the touch like he usually does. “I think you should stay the night in Stalken before flying home.” His blue eyes gleam, sharp with that little flash of defiance I secretly love. “Omegas are delicate and easily stressed. You need to prioritize her health.” Then he gives methe look.Chin lifted. Brows slightly arched. Daring me to argue with his logic. “It won’t kill you to stay one night.”
Goddamnit, I love this man so much.
He cares so deeply for those around him. Even people he hasn’t met.
Not wanting to upset him too much, I sigh, then lean in and kiss the corner of his mouth. “Fine. If she’s too tired, we’ll stay the night. But,” I arch a brow at him, “I’m not taking the suitcase.”
He blinks innocently up at me. “The duffle bag?”
I pretend to think. “The duffle bag is acceptable.”
Myrick exhales in dramatic relief and watches as I kneel to slide the suitcase back under the bed. He practically pounces on me once I’m upright, wrapping himself around my torso and pressing his cheek to my chest like he’s trying to fuse with me.
His nose nuzzles between my pecs, and I feel the gentle drag of his scenting. “Text me her measurements the second you have her,” he says, muffled by fabric. “I want her tocome home to a full closet. She shouldn’t have to wear hand-me-downs or hospital gowns.”
I chuckle, pulling him in tighter. “You are too good, my love.”
“I’m just better than you,” he says sweetly, brushing his lips along mine. “We both know it.”
I laugh against his mouth and kiss him again, longer this time. I linger, taking my time to enjoy the feel of him. Slim. Solid. Soft where it matters.
“Just wait,” I whisper, bumping my nose against his. “Once we have her, we sell the business, buy a hut on some godforsaken beach, and raise our kids like a couple of wild recluses.”
“Yes.” He hums against me, practically purring. “Sunburned and barefoot, with fruity drinks, and no clients.”
“No clients,” I echo.
