Everything about the room oozes Old World masculinity. The walls are clad in dark wood. The rug on the floor is silk, intricately woven with jewel-toned details that pick up the richness of the timber in the room. A heavy mahogany desk dominates the space. It looks like it was carved by testosterone. By big hands and a deep voice. There’s nothing on it except for a notepad, a single fountain pen, and a gold opener engraved with the Augustus insignia.
There’s an oversized chair with an upholstered leather seat and arms behind the desk, and behind that, there’s a painting that’s unlike the rest of the art in the house. The other paintings are old, most likely incredibly valuable. This one is new. It’s a painting of Gregor. A close-up of him. He looks the way he looks when he’s ridden in the morning. His eyes are flashing, his mane flowing out to the side.
It’s a beautiful piece. It’s powerful. It looks like movement. Like motion frozen in time.
It fills me with such certainty that this space belongs to Lord Augustus that my entire body tenses and I’m unable to move a muscle. Unable to draw the curtains. Unable to do anything but stand where I am and inhale desperately to see if I can pick up any hint of alpha scent.
I catch myself on my third inhale and bolt from the room, carefully half-closing the door so as not to arouse any suspicion that I was here.
Though turning on the lights in the hallways improves the eerie mood, the house is so vast that, despite my efforts, most of the ground floor is still swallowed by the black of night.
My old friend Fear is still with me. Wrapped around me tightly. Not like a blanket exactly, but rather something inside me that pulls my balls tight up against my body.
At last, my nerve fails me. I’ve gone as far as I can. I’ve ventured as far as I dare. The fun fear, the fear I like, the fear that turns me on, has tipped the scale into real fear, so I hot-foot it back to my side of the house.
My anxiety spikes as I make my way past the dining room and parlor. The whine of the wind amplifies as I go. It changes from a whine to a wail, and as I get closer to the entrance hall, I slow down to catch my breath. When I do, I notice that the mournful whine I've been hearing for hours is accompanied by asemi-regular battering that doesn’t sound like something that’s caused by the weather.
I follow the sound to the front door and prick my ears. I’m right. The stormy sounds that are causing the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end aren’t from the wind.
They’re made by a person.
By a woman.
Someone else is here. Someone is at the front door, banging the knocker repeatedly, and crying.
At a loss, I look around and whisper hopefully, “Um, excuse me, Lord, are you here?”
I know he’s out. I know I’m completely alone in the house. I have been for hours. It’s why I’ve been so unnerved. It’s just that I’m not sure how one is supposed to handle things like this, and I think a person of noble birth might be what the situation calls for.
Of course he doesn’t answer.
The person at the door keens and bangs on the door again.
And again.
I’m really not sure what to do. Whoever is out there might be in trouble. They might need help. At the same time, it’s late, this isn’t my house, or my country, and nothing about what’s happening feels like a particularly good idea.
I wait for a few more minutes, and then a prickle of curiosity gets the better of me. I unlock the door and open it gingerly, ready to slam it shut if need be.
I’m met by the sight of a bedraggled, windswept omega in a high state of emotion. Her auburn hair is plastered to her face, mascara running down her cheeks, along with torrents of rain.
“Who are you?” she demands when she sees me. Her voice is stripped bare, a screech that’s had breeding and socialization torn from it. “And where ishe?Where. Is. He?I need to see him.Ihaveto.” Her tone changes from frantic to desperate. “Please, it’s urgent.”
I’m as taken aback by the dreadful state of this woman as I am by the fact that it’s abundantly clear that the odorless lord of the house is the alpha who has whipped her into this frenzy.
Behind her, lightning cracks on the moor, lighting a ghostly silhouette of an oversized man. A broad-shouldered brute who’s overly polite, dull, and belligerent, and so fucking mysterious I haven’t slept through the night since I first met him.
He makes his way across the drive, his gait long and dreary.
“Ceclia,” he says, exhaling a long, slow breath. “You shouldn’t be here.”
She spins to face him, reaching out and clawing at his soaked jacket. She sniffs feebly at the base of his neck as he attempts to bat her off. “Why have you done this to yourself?Why, Alfie?”
The way he frees himself from her is unexpected. I expect him to wipe her off like sweat, but he doesn’t. He handles her gently, in a way that’s so considerate and so laced with empathy that something strange fires in the back of my head. He takes her by the shoulders, firm but still gentle.
The simple action calms her immediately. Her hands drop to her sides and she stills.
“You, of all people, know why,” he says quietly.
