I force myself to step back. Amos straightens his shirt and runs a hand through his hair as I adjust my tie.
"Tonight," I promise, my voice low enough that only he can hear. "Let's go see what we're dealing with, first."
We leave the office together, moving through the hallways of this cold, lifeless house. The only plan I had for this evening was getting Amos home and working out the aggression he spent all afternoon building in me, throwing those smirks at me from across the conference table while I tried to present financials to the board.
Apparently, plans change.
Halfway down the hallway leading to the main entrance, I catch scents that stop me cold. My steps slow, and beside me, Amos stiffens.
The woman's scent is first. It’s artificial, masked by the kind of perfume that's trying too hard to cover up what's underneath. Desperation and ambition wrapped in expensive bottles. My lip curls. And then there's the other one.
Father didn't mention our new stepbrother was an Omega.
The scent hits me square in the chest, a mixture of rich coconut and warm wood, nothing like the synthetic garbage rolling off the woman. This is real and natural and so arresting that my mouth actually waters. Every Alpha instinct I possess roars to life, demanding I find the source immediately. I stop walking entirely, my hand shooting out to catch Amos' arm.
"Dom?" Amos murmurs, one brow raised.
I don't answer. I can't. The scent winds through the air and wraps around me, calling to something I keep on a very short leash. I breathe through it carefully, forcing my instincts back down, and then I keep walking.
We round the corner into the main hall, finding Father standing near the entrance, his hand on the arm of the woman. She’s dressed expensively, something calculating sitting behind her smile. This isn't a woman who fell in love with my father. This is a woman who saw an opportunity and moved on it without hesitation. I recognize the type because I live with the type.
Standing beside her, looking entirely out of place, is an Omega.
Young, mid-twenties at most. Dark curly hair falling around his shoulders, wide brown eyes currently fixed carefully on the middle distance. He's wearing a restaurant apron stained with grease, looking like he was pulled from a shift rather than prepared for any of this. Exhaustion is written into every line ofhis body, but underneath that, underneath the careful blankness he's wearing like armor, there is fear.
And he smells absolutely devastating.
I fully step into the room, Amos close behind me, and watch the Omega's head snap up. I watch the exact moment he registers what we are, his pupils blowing wide, his lips parting slightly, a flush crawling up his neck before he catches it and clamps down.
The sight of this Omega reacting to us sends a dark, satisfied thrill straight through me.
This is my new stepbrother.
Amos kicks me in the shin, a sharp warning that I'm staring too openly. I ignore it. I'm too busy cataloguing every detail from the white-knuckled grip of his hands at his sides, the almost imperceptible tremor in his shoulders, and the way he is working so hard to look anywhere but directly at me.
I wonder if he'll play willingly or if I'll have to teach him to submit.
The thought is darker than it should be and I don't particularly care. I've been in this house long enough to recognize something caged when I see it, and every line of this Omega's body is the posture of something that's been kept behind glass so long it's forgotten what open air feels like. That kind of suppression doesn't hold forever. Pressure builds. Walls crack. And when they do, whoever is standing on the other side gets everything that's been locked away behind them.
I intend to be standing on the other side.
"Dominic. Amos." Father's voice pulls my attention. "Greet your new mother and your new brother."
I look at Father, then back at the Omega. A rather devious plan slots itself into place.
Father didn't bring this woman here for love. He never does anything for love. He brought her here for leverage, for access, orfor something he wants. And what he's brought along with her, without realizing what he's handed me, is an opportunity.
An Omega who is clearly suppressing his instincts with everything he has and losing the battle just from standing in the same room as us.
Father wants to use him. Fine. I can use him better.
I can make this Omega fall apart. I can dismantle every wall he's built, pull him open until he's desperate and undone and publicly, undeniably ours. An Omega stepbrother losing himself to both of Richard Hale's sons would be exactly the kind of scandal that makes the board ask questions, that makes investors nervous, and makes Father's pristine image crack right down the center. Father would have no choice but to send them both packing before the damage became irreparable.
It's elegant, really. Using Father's own weapon against him would be such sweet revenge.
"He's not my brother," I state, letting my voice carry just enough edge to land. "But welcome to the house."
Amos doesn't kick me this time. He recognizes the shift in my tone, the difference between genuine hostility and something more calculated. He falls into step beside me, smoothly picking up where I leave off.
