"There's a room prepared upstairs," Amos offers, his voice warm and easy and designed to put people at ease. If Father planned this, then Amos isn’t wrong technically and from what I know about the layout, this new Omega will be situated right across the hall from us. "We can show you up whenever you're ready."
The Omega — Mattaniah, Father supplies,— gives a small, cautious nod. His gaze skates over Amos and then lands briefly on me before cutting away again, like looking directly at me is something he has to ration carefully.
I gesture toward the stairs. "This way."
I don't wait to see if he follows. His soft footsteps fall in behind us a moment later, maintaining as much distance as the staircase will allow. His scent thickens slightly in the enclosed stairwell, a mixture of anxiety and uncertainty twisted up in the sweetness of him but I keep my expression perfectly neutral.
We stop at the guest room near the end of the hall and I push the door open. "This is yours," I say, stepping aside.
He hesitates in the doorway, scanning the room with the careful attention of someone who has learned to check spaces for exits and threats before entering. When he finally steps inside it’s with the same caution he’s done everything else so far, and it tells me more about his life than anything he could say out loud.
"Bathroom's through there," Amos adds, pointing to the back of the room. "If you need anything, just ask."
Mattaniah nods. He still hasn't looked directly at me. His scent morphs, going slightly sour at the edges, before righting again.
I study him for one long moment. The dark curls. The soft mouth pressed into a careful line. The way he's standing like he's trying to take up as little space as possible in a room that belongs to no one.
Oh, I'm going to like playing with him.
"Welcome to the family," I push out and then step back into the hallway.
Amos falls into step behind me, and the moment my bedroom door closes, I have him against the wall before he's finished his first breath. He goes easily, head tipping back, a low sound escaping his throat that does nothing to cool the heat that's been building since the moment that Omega's scent hit me in the hallway.
"You have a plan," Amos says, not quite a question, his hands already working at my belt.
"I always have a plan." I wrap my hand around his jaw and tip his face up. "I'll explain it properly. After."
He reads my meaning without needing it spelled out, his expression shifting to showcase the same desire running through him.
I walk him backward into the bathroom, and he goes without resistance, bracing his hands against the edge of the sink when I turn him around. His reflection looks back at me from the mirror, eyes blown wide, a flush running up his throat, as I reach for the lube we keep in the cabinet.
"We need to be quiet," I murmur, slicking my fingers and reaching between his legs. "Can't have our new little brother hearing what we get up to."
Amos lets out a low, unsteady breath. "You're already thinking about him."
"I'm thinking about you." I work him open with the focused attention I give everything that matters to me, watching his reflection as his jaw goes slack. "He's just given me something to think about while I do it."
"That's somehow worse," Amos manages, though the words come out rough around the edges.
I press a kiss to the back of his neck. "You love it."
I push inside him in one smooth stroke, Amos' mouth falling open on a silent gasp. My hand covers his mouth before any sound can escape, and I set a pace that leaves no room for either of us to think about anything except the heat of him, the way he moves with me, and the familiar perfect give of his body when I take what's mine.
But my mind drifts despite my efforts.
I think about what it's going to look like when that Omega’s control finally breaks. When he stops fighting his own instincts and just falls, completely and helplessly, into exactly what his body has been screaming for.
I think about being the reason it happens.
I thrust harder as Amos' fingers curl against the counter. His reflection in the mirror is wrecked and beautiful and entirely mine. I press my mouth to his shoulder and let myself get lost in him properly — the sounds he makes against my palm, the way his body knows mine after years of this, and the bond mark on my chest that pulses every time he gasps.
When we finish, I turn him around and he slumps against me, a satisfied flush on his cheekbones.
"Feel better?" he asks, his voice rough.
"Marginally." I press my lips to his forehead, a gesture that would surprise anyone who only knows me from boardrooms and quarterly reports. Mattaniah’s scent seeps through the wood, faint and sweet and distressed in equal measure, something in my chest responding to it before I can decide whether I want it to.
There will be time for Mattaniah. I'm going to learn exactly what he's made of underneath all that training, find every crack in his foundation, and work on each one until the whole structure comes down.
