None but his omega, which…fuck. Thatwashow he thought of the duch now.
Fornow, he told himself firmly.
When all this was done, he’d draw the appropriate lines between them. Servant and master. Regardless of how wrong it felt, to think of his little omega as master.
Wrong enough that fire licked up his spine and his muscles tensed.
Gods. He was going to have to do it, wasn’t he? Hunt the duch down and?—
No. He’d fuck it out with Jack.
Jack would like it.
Beckett would fight him, and Jack would like it.
He wouldn’t let Beckett inside him, though. Wouldn’t welcome him in, like the duch did.
But maybe…they’d done all sorts before. Didn’t need a hole. Thighs would do it. Or buttocks. And Jack? Oh, he had an arse on him, that man. Round and tight and muscled. Yeah.Yes. Bit of effort and Beckett could get him on his belly, hold him down, and slot his cock?—
Beckett heard his own breath rasping in his ears, and realised that he was shifting from foot to foot as he imagined it.
No. He was better than this. He wasn’t one of those mindless alphas who made their dick everyone else’s problem.
He had to be better.
He calmed his breathing, straightened his shoulders and forced them down. Forced himself to relax.
To give the show of it, at least.
Garvey had slunk off at some point while Beckett was fantasising about Jack’s arse. Run off to Marl to dob him in, hadn’t he? It was bad enough Marl had to come and get him to service the duch last night. He wasn’t about to let the old man try and talk to him about his rut.
Turning on his heel, he set off at a purposeful yetcontrolledclip for Jack’s study.
Maybe the duch was still there.
Maybe the duch was still there and in a similar state. It would simplify things. Beckett would be the one doing a favour. He’d carry the duch upstairs, throw him on Jack’s bed, drag Jack down with them, and he’d get to work.
And if the duch wasn’t there, he’d drag Jack upstairs, throw him down on Jack’s bed, and he’d get to work.
He’d forgotten about the suppressants.
He didn’t even knock on the study door before barging on in. The duch wasn’t there, and Jack was?—
“Shit.” Beckett lunged across the room to where Jack was slumped in the chair behind his desk. His head lolled awkwardly to one side and his arms hung limp.
Beckett pressed shaking fingers to the side of Jack’s throat. He looked as if he was—no. He was fine.
He wasfine.
He was not fine. But he wasn’t dead, and that was all that mattered to Beckett.
He gently cupped the back of Jack’s head, gripped a shoulder, and eased him up from that horrible, slack-limbed lolling he’d been doing. He smoothed Jack’s hair back.
Gods, how he loved this man.
He’d tried not to. He’d scolded himself whenever the stupid word so much as drifted into his mind.
Hadn’t done any good.
