He stares at me for one long drawn out moment.
“Fuck it,” he growls.
He closes the small distance remaining between us, one hand coming up to cradle my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek like he’s grounding himself. His mouth claims mine—not rough, not desperate, but full of restrained fury and want.
Like he’s been holding this back since the moment we met.
My fingers curl into his shirt before I can stop myself, tugging him closer, my other hand sliding to the back of his neck.
His tongue licks at me, his teeth nip, one large palm cradling my skull.
I gasp softly. He takes advantage and deepens the kiss until all I can taste is him and the bourbon he’d apparently drank before coming to see me. My omega lights up like she’s been waiting for this exact thing.
He groans and I moan in response. Pressing up to my toes to get closer. One hand slides down my back to my ass, pulling me tight to his body until I feel the hard ridge of his cock press into my stomach.
I whimper. He growls.
The kiss deepens for a heartbeat, and then he pulls away, breathing heavily.
His forehead rests against mine, eyes closed. When he opens them I see it. The regret, the guilt.
“That was a mistake,” I say before he can, before he has a chance to tear out a piece of my heart and step on it with his impeccable Tom Fords. My chest aches as I press my palms to his and push him away until I can breathe, creating the space we both need.
He swipes a hand over his mouth, and nods. “It was. But it’s not one I’ll apologize for.”
I scoff. “Of course not. Can’t admit fault, can you?”
“Florence.”
“Forsythe.”
He sighs and paces a few steps away from me before he comes back, eyes blazing. “I can’t give you what you deserve,cor mea. I’m trying not to destroy you. To destroy us. Everything.” His voice roughens. “My pack. My family. You. I’m working so hard to keep everyone safe and happy and whole. Surely you can see that. Tell me you can see that.”
The words knock the breath from my lungs.
The problem is that I can see it. I know all his highhanded demands and orders are for a purpose, not because he enjoys being an asshole. He is genuinely trying to do right by everyone, and it's tearing him apart.
I nod. “I can see that, Your Highness.” The use of his title is purposeful. A promise to do my part. To keep my distance. He still flinches, shoulders going tight for a moment before he visibly forces them to relax, his mask slips back in place.
“If things were different,” he murmurs, eyes dark and shining, “there isn’t a force on this earth that would keep me from you.”
My breath catches, my heart thunders and hope, that damnable thing, swells, even though I know better.
I step backward into the open doorway of my cabana. “But they aren’t,” I whisper.
“No,” he says softly. “They aren’t.”
And then he turns away—leaving me with the echo of his mouth on mine, the certainty that I got under his skin just as deeply as he got under mine, and the devastating knowledge that he wanted me and chose duty anyway.
Episode 18: Heavy is the Head
Elizabeth answers on the third ring.
My twin fills the screen, sprawled across a chaise in what I recognize as her private sitting room. Her dark hair is loose down her back, her omega—her wife, no matter what our grandmother insists on calling her—just visible at the edge of the frame, bare feet tucked under Elizabeth’s thigh.
“God,” Elizabeth says, squinting at me. “You look like absolute shit.”
I snort. “Good to see you too, Lizzie.”
