The nickname sent an unwelcome shiver down my spine. My body's reaction to his voice was immediate and mortifying—pulse quickening, skin warming, memories of those hands on me making heat pool low in my belly.
"Like the dead," I lied, crossing my arms defensively. "If the dead have nightmares about boundary-violating alphas with delusions of ownership."
His smile widened, showing teeth. "Nightmares? Is that what you call those dreams that had you moaning in your sleep? Matteo heard you through your window during his perimeter check at three seventeen a.m."
My face burned hot enough to fry an egg. The idea that they'd been listening, monitoring, cataloging my unconscious responses made me want to dig a hole and bury myself in it. Or possibly bury them, if I could find a shovel big enough for three alpha corpses.
"I was having a nightmare about being chased by three rabid hyenas with particularly bad breath," I shot back. "The similarities to you three are purely coincidental."
Uncle Jiro chuckled, completely misinterpreting our exchange as friendly banter. "Such spirited friends you have, Leo-kun! Now come, help us with the tomato plants. Your mother's heirloom varieties need special attention."
The mention of my mother combined with Uncle Jiro's obvious delight at the alphas' presence effectively trapped me. I couldn't storm off without upsetting him, couldn't explain why these "nice young men" were actually manipulative predators using him to get to me.
"Fine," I muttered, moving to the vegetable beds with as much enthusiasm as someone approaching their own execution. "But I'll handle the tomatoes myself."
Zeus followed me to the garden beds, pressing against my leg with unexpected gentleness, as if sensing my distress. Despite myself, I found my hand dropping to scratch behind his ears, taking small comfort in the simple contact.
"At least you're honest about your betrayal," I told him quietly. "No pretending you're here for the tomatoes."
For the next three hours—yes, three entire hours of alpha-induced torture—I suffered through the most excruciating gardening session of my life. Matteo stationed himself directly across from me, occasionally offering quiet observations about soil acidity and proper pruning techniques that would have been fascinating if they weren't coming from someone who had recorded me begging for alpha cock and was now using it as blackmail material.
"The pH balance affects nutrient absorption," he noted, watching me mix compost into the soil. "Just as certain hormones affect omega receptivity to alpha pheromones."
I glared at him over the tomato plants. "Fascinating. Do you also have gardening metaphors for consent violation and blackmail, or is your creepy analogy library limited to basic biology?"
The corner of his mouth twitched in what might have been amusement. "You have excellent instincts for cultivation. Your hands know what to do even when your mind resists."
Meanwhile, Stefano moved around the garden like he owned it, casually rearranging tools, asking Uncle Jiro about the property's history, and finding every excuse to brush past me close enough that his scent wrapped around me like an invisible claim. Every time he passed, he'd drop some loaded comment disguised as garden talk.
"Those need firm handling," he observed when I was wrestling with a particularly stubborn tomato vine. "Though I suspect you enjoy a firm hand, don't you, little prince?"
"They prefer to be tied up properly," he remarked about the climbing beans. "Something to remember for tonight."
Each comment sent fresh heat to my face and made concentration nearly impossible. Uncle Jiro, bless his oblivious heart, seemed to think Stefano was simply passionate about gardening, nodding along to advice that was clearly not about plants at all.
The worst part was watching Matteo study my every reaction with that clinical intensity, those amber eyes tracking my pulse, my breathing, the way I flinched when Stefano got too close. He was gathering data, I realized with growing horror—learning exactly which buttons to push, which words made me flush, which touches made me tense.
I was reaching for the pruning shears when Stefano's hand closed over mine, his fingers sliding between my own in a grip that was both gentle and inescapable.
"Allow me," he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. "These require precision."
The contact sent electricity shooting up my arm, my body responding to his touch like we were already intimate, already connected by more than this unwanted attraction. I tried to pull away, but his grip tightened fractionally, holding me in place as he guided the shears to a particularly stubborn branch.
"Like this," he said, his voice pitched low enough that only I could hear the double meaning. "See how smoothly it yields when you find just the right spot?"
"I will stab you with these shears," I hissed back, keeping my voice equally quiet. "Don't test me."
His laugh rumbled against my back, the sound vibrating through my bones. "Such threats from someone who melted inmy arms last night. I wonder if you'll be this defiant tonight when you're spread beneath us."
The image his words conjured sent a fresh wave of heat through me, unwanted arousal making me shift uncomfortably. I jerked my hand away, finally breaking his grip, and immediately regretted the hasty movement as the shears caught the edge of my finger.
"Shit," I gasped as blood welled from the small cut. Not deep, but enough to sting sharply and send a bright line of red trickling down my finger.
Before I could react, Stefano captured my wrist, bringing my finger to his mouth with casual ownership that should have infuriated me. Instead, I watched in horrified fascination as his lips closed around the injured digit, his tongue sweeping over the small cut with deliberate slowness.
The sensation was electric—hot and wet and so intimate it made my knees weaken. His eyes held mine as he sucked gently, the pressure sending pulses of heat straight to my core. The slow, rhythmic motion of his mouth around my finger was unmistakably sexual, a deliberate imitation of another act entirely.
My mind flashed suddenly, vividly, to that night in the forest—to Marco on his knees before me, his mouth around my cock, the wet heat enveloping me as I came apart in his hands. The memory collided with the present moment, merging into a new fantasy that had me imagining what it would feel like if Stefano were to replace his finger with something else, if that talented mouth were to work its way down my body.
