He did not belong to this omega.
He was here for a job, like any other. That’s all it was. A job. Like carrying luggage up to a guest’s room, or bringing in the tea tray.
It was just another job. He was doing this for Jack.
The moon had been out earlier that night, full and fat in a cloudless indigo sky. It was hiding now. Rain ticked softly against the thick glass and the only light in the room came from the small oil lamp beside the omega’s bed.
The duch—his name is Arden—theduchwas facedown on the bed, the heavy coverlet spilling to the floor in a rich fall of silk, or satin, or whatever the fancy fabric was that shone in the soft light and probably cost more than Beckett could earn in his lifetime.
He was trembling with the effort not to move.
Beckett tipped his head to one side, nostrils flaring and jaw tightening as he surveyed the man.
He was small.
When Beckett was on top of him, you wouldn’t be able to even see him. The erection that had been straining Beckett’s breeches since he’d heard the omega’s cries swelled further.
Beckett unfastened his breeches and gave a small groan of relief. The duch must have heard, even through the whining pants he was making, because he froze.
Beckett waited to see what he’d do.
Nothing, apparently.
The duch held himself as still as if he was one of the marble statues in the Long Gallery, or one of Jack’s noble ancestors in any of the fine paintings that lined the corridors throughout the house.
Not for long, though. That was the whole problem with him going into heat, wasn’t it? He couldn’t be still, not even if he wanted to. His body was in control. His body wanted to move.
His body, Beckett thought, wanted to be pinned down.
It wantedBeckettto pin it down.
The duch exhaled a little moan. His hands fisted in the sheets and he used the grip to drag his hips over the rucked-up bedding. His neck arched as he pressed his forehead to the mattress. He’d knocked the pillows off. Beckett crossed the room to lean down and pick one up. He tossed it onto the mattress beside the duch’s head.
The duch froze again.
They both knew that he was aware Beckett was in the room. Even if he hadn’t heard anything, he’d be able to smell alpha pheromones in the air as much as Beckett could smell omega. His despairing cries had changed tone anyway. He’d drawn an alpha here.
Now all he had to do was get his hole filled.
Beckett glared down at him.
He was pale, his back and limbs smooth and tinted a soft pink by the glow of the lamp. His hair was a muted russet; it was overly long, a mop of loose curls inappropriate for a man of his high status. Beckett’s hair was a straight, plain, mahogany brown, tied back in a queue as suited a footman. At least, it would have been tied back if he hadn’t been dug out of bed in the middle of the night.
He was still glaring down at the duch when the omega turned his face to the side. He breathed in dry, wheezing pants. His lips were chapped, and he blinked at Beckett through a spill of that unruly hair.
Beckett reached down and flicked it out of his eyes.
The duch blinked at him again, and his face drained of what little colour he’d had to start with. His pupils dilated, leaving nothing but thin rings of slate grey.
Beckett crossed his arms over his brawny chest and stared at the omega. He hadn’t seen him close up until now. He’d seen him from the doorway of the morning parlour, once, when Beckett had answered the bell because none of the other footmen were around to pass the job off to. The duch hadordered a second pot of tea, and looked like he was going to faint about it.
He was, Beckett realised with astonishment,olderthan Beckett.
Beckett couldn’t tell how old. He’d never been good at ages. He wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the duch was over thirty. Closer to Jack’s age than to Beckett’s.
Jack could have any fresh new omega he wanted, and he went out and shackled himself to this pale, weak, ageing little thing?
His thoughts must have shown on his face, because the duch’s cheeks got some colour back. It was painful, watching him try to gather himself.
