I finished my breakfast quickly, torn between wanting to hide in my room forever and needing to see exactly what kind of alpha invasion was happening in our yard. Curiosity won outover self-preservation—a recurring theme in my life that had yet to work in my favor.
"I'm going to check on Uncle Jiro," I announced, standing abruptly. "Make sure he hasn't been brainwashed into joining some alpha cult."
"Such imagination," Aunt Akiko chuckled. "While you're out there, could you tell Matteo-san I appreciate his help with the laundry? He offered to hang it for me."
"The laundry?" I repeated, a sense of dread washing over me. "What laundry, specifically?"
"Just the usual," she said innocently. "Sheets, towels, your clothes…"
"My clothes?" My voice rose to a pitch that probably only dogs could hear. "As in, my underwear? My personal items?"
"Well, yes, everything that was in the hamper," she confirmed, looking puzzled by my horror. "Is that a problem? He was very insistent on helping."
Of course he was. Why pass up an opportunity to handle my intimate items while establishing dominance over my territory?
"No problem at all," I said through gritted teeth. "Totally normal for alpha strangers to do my laundry. Nothing weird about that. Not intrusive or boundary-crossing at all."
I stalked toward the door, already plotting elaborate revenge scenarios involving itching powder and their expensive camping gear. The moment I stepped outside, I spotted Uncle Jiro in the vegetable garden with Marco kneeling beside him, both of them deeply engaged in what appeared to be an intense discussion about tomato staking techniques.
Marco looked up immediately, his dark eyes finding mine with predatory precision. His smile widened, revealing perfect teeth that made something flutter traitorously in my chest.
"Little prince!" he called cheerfully. "Just in time to help with the garden work. Your uncle has been teaching me about Japanese growing techniques."
Uncle Jiro beamed with obvious pleasure. "Marco-san knows so much about Italian heirloom varieties! We're going to try growing some San Marzano tomatoes next season."
"Fascinating," I said flatly. "Nothing says 'highly trained security professional' like extensive knowledge of nightshade cultivation."
Rather than being offended, Marco laughed—a rich sound that seemed to vibrate through the air between us. "Protection takes many forms, little prince. Sometimes it's physical security…" His eyes deliberately dropped to my mouth, lingering there just long enough to make heat rise to my face. "And sometimes it's ensuring the people you care about have the best possible tomatoes."
Uncle Jiro, completely oblivious to the subtext, nodded enthusiastically. "He's already fixed that support system that kept collapsing. Such strong hands, this one!"
Strong hands. Right. I have firsthand experience with exactly how strong those hands are.
Before I could formulate a suitably sarcastic response, movement on the clothesline caught my eye. Matteo was methodically hanging laundry, his movements precise and efficient as he carefully clipped each item to the line. With growing horror, I realized he was handling my underwear—not just any underwear, but the collection of soft cotton briefs I wore when not expecting anyone to see them.
He looked up, those amber eyes finding mine with that unnerving intensity that always made me feel completely exposed. He held up a pair of my blue briefs, giving them a small shake before carefully clipping them to the line.
"These should dry quickly in this sun," he said casually, as if discussing the weather rather than handling my most intimate clothing. "Cotton breathes well."
My face burned hot enough to power a small city. "What the actual fuck?" I hissed, storming over to the clothesline. "You can't just—that's my—why are you touching my underwear?"
"Helping Akiko-san," he replied simply, reaching into the laundry basket for another pair—these ones with ridiculous cartoon cats that had been a joke gift from Aunt Akiko. "She mentioned her arthritis was bothering her today."
"That doesn't mean you get to fondle my personal items!" I protested, trying to snatch the cat underwear from his hands. He held them just out of reach, a flicker of amusement crossing his usually stoic features.
"I'm not fondling," he corrected, carefully clipping the cat briefs to the line with infuriating precision. "I'm organizing. You have many pairs. Very colorful."
"Oh my God," I groaned, covering my face with my hands. "Just kill me now. Put me out of my misery. One quick snap of the neck is all it would take."
"Death by underwear embarrassment," a familiar voice drawled behind me. "Not the most dignified end for the heir to the Yamamoto name."
I turned slowly, already knowing who I'd find. Stefano sat in one of our garden chairs like it was a throne, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, the picture of casual dominance. His cobalt eyes tracked my every movement, amusement dancing in their depths.
"Technically, death would be the end of the embarrassment," I pointed out, crossing my arms defensively. "So really, it's a solution, not a problem."
His smile widened, showing teeth. "Always so quick with that clever mouth. I'm still savoring how it felt against mine this morning."
“Don't you all have security things to do?" I snapped, heat rising to my face as Matteo continued methodically hanging my underwear like this was all perfectly normal. "Perimeters to patrol? Bad guys to intimidate? Literally anything that doesn't involve my property or my underwear?"
