He slips his hand into mine and follows without hesitation. His palm is narrow, his hand soft and warm. Long, graceful fingers mold to mine with the same precision that the mask he’s wearing molds to his face.
We find a sunken garden not far from the house. It has a low semicircular bench that’s been positioned with a view of the house's façade in mind. We take a seat and enjoy the sounds and lights of the night’s revelry floating toward us.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I’m a little taken aback by the question. I’m not expecting it because I’ve been putting significant effort into creating the illusion of being one who is fine.
“Yes,” I reply quickly. “Fine. Totally fine.”
He doesn’t reply or ask any more questions. We sit in a companionable silence that’s comforting at first, but changes after a while. It goes from something known and light into something with long claws and sharp edges.
His jaw clicks before he speaks. He looks up at the house and then down at his hands, which are tucked between his thighs. He squeezes his legs together so tightly that the gravel under his feet crunches.
“Have you ever thought about going off your suppressant?” His voice is smooth and clear, but there’s a tremor in it that I don’t like. A tremor I put there. “You know, so you could scent me?”
The question makes my heart ache and my entire body fills with dread.
“I’m human, little mouse,” I say quietly. “I’d be lying if I said I’d never thought about it. We get on well, and I enjoy your company immensely, so yes, of course I’ve thought about it.”
His head spins, brows rising high. Despite the mask and the makeup he’s wearing, despite the lace and his shiny hair, the eyes that meet mine are known to me. Familiar. Friendly and kind. “I-is it something you’d consider doing?”
As I look into them, I see the eyes of every omega I’ve hurt. Blue eyes. Brown eyes. Green. All unique and individual when I met them, all haunted and wracked by the same pain when I left them.
The thought of seeing these eyes, these honey-brown, soft, smiling eyes looking like that makes my stomach roil. Nausea and terror rise and twist my insides into a knot.
“No,” I say firmly. “I’d never do that to you.”
24
Jensen
Thedayisasdreary as I feel, and that’s saying something. It’s gray and blustery, but it isn’t forecast to rain until late this afternoon. I’ve spent most of the morning looking for flights home, and I’ve called Lucien and confessed all my sins. He’s understandably aghast, and Branson is wild with rage. It took me over an hour to convince him that the only thing that would be gained from him flying out and kicking the lord’s ass would be landing himself in jail. Fortunately, the threat of being parted from Lucien for any length of time was enough to slightly subdue his rage.
Still, I’m bracing for an irate call from my mother any minute now.
My phone rings, vibrating loudly on my desk, and I wince, surreptitiously eyeing the screen to see who it is.
It’s Wilder.
I don’t answer.
My dad calls next, and I don’t answer that either.
Christian’s up next, which infuriates me. What the hell has any of this got to do with my brother’s best friend?
I don’t answer his call either.
I can feel my family’s concern so strongly that I can hardly sit still. It’s awful. They might be an ocean away, but their feelings are palpable. I can’t bear it.
I can’t.
The phone rings again. I peer at the screen, taking great care not to touch it, lest I answer by accident. It’s my mother.
As my phone clatters on my desk, I look out the window. It’s as gloomy as it gets out there, a thick band of fog blanketing the horizon. I look out and look out and look out until, at last, the moor calls my name.
25
Alfie
