He spun on his heel and ran to Jack’s bedchamber, wrenching open the door, and?—
The duch was on the bed.
He wasn’t naked and ready, however innocently. He was naked, yes, but he lay curled in a tight little ball in the centre of the mattress, on his side and facing the door.
His knees were drawn up and he’d hunched down to press his forehead to them. His arms were wrapped around his legs. He was clutching his ankles.
He couldn’t have made himself smaller if he’d tried.
That was the first thing Beckett registered. The second was that the duch was alone.
Dunn wasn’t here.
The only people who had been in here were him, Jack, the duch, and—briefly, going on the faintness of his scent—Hapton.
Dunn was lucky he wasn’t here. Even the drifting hint of Hapton had Beckett snarling, lips curling in rage.
The slam of the door rebounding against the wall hard enough to close again hadn’t roused the duch. Beckett’s snarl did.
He unfurled from his little ball and scrambled off the bed to the floor. He staggered up to his feet, and bolted.
Beckett did the only thing an alpha could do when faced with a running omega. He gave chase. And Jack’s chamber was big, but it wasn’t that big. There wasn’t anywhere to go. He caught the duch before he’d got more than six feet from the bed.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” the duch wailed. “I’m so sorry.”
“Shh, shh.” Beckett wrapped his arms as tight as he could around the shaking omega. “Your Grace. Your Grace. Be calm.”
The duch cut his noise off at once and nodded furiously. He didn’t stop shaking.
Beckett stared down at him, and when the duch kept his head bent, he slid a hand under the pointed little chin and lifted it. “Your Grace,” he said roughly. When the duch still refused to look at him, he said, boldly, “Arden.”
Arden’s face crumpled and he shook his head.
“Yes,” Beckett said, firming his voice. “Look at me.”
“No, I?—”
“Lookat me.”
Arden dragged his gaze slowly up but he didn’t meet Beckett’s eyes. He stared somewhere off to his left ear.
“Atme,” Beckett said, managing to inject a little coaxing into his tone.
Arden’s throat clicked as he swallowed with extreme effort. He squeezed his eyes shut briefly, then looked directly atBeckett. “You c-can leave,” he said. “You said no. I am p-perfectly w-well.”
“Are you,” Beckett said flatly. Arden’s small hands were plucking at Beckett’s shirt, systematically pulling it out of his waistband. Beckett didn’t think he realised he was doing it.
Arden shifted in his arms.
Beckett didn’t hesitate. He picked Arden up, strode over to the bed, and tossed him on it. “Don’t run,” he gritted out as he tugged his shirt out of his breeches and over his head.
Arden covered his face with his hands.
Beckett leaned closer and drew them away. “Don’t hide.”
Arden bit his lip and looked away.
“Ah.” Beckett caught his chin. “You’ll watch me, duch.”
