My forearm fell over my eyes, obscuring the late morning sun.
It was quiet. My omega slept, and I exhaled. It had been four days; she was nearing the end of her heat. I sensed it. I shot off another text to Liam, telling him to find me a contractor.
When he poked, I told him to mind his business. I never considered myself impulsive, but my omega would not spend another heat in anything less than the most luxurious nest. Another suite sat unused on the other side of his closet.
No better use for it than her nest.
Warmth spread through me, calming my raging alpha.
Hot water poured off my body as I pressed my forehead to the wall in my shower. Strands of hair fell over my shoulders, and for the first time in days my dick wasn’t heavy between my legs. I dried off, tying my hair back into a neat bun, tugging at the cuffs of my shirt.
As I made my way to my office, I passed Pat, still stationed outside Willow’s room. Purple marks hung under his eyes as I tilted my head in his direction. The tough fucker hadn’t slept, standing like a sentry at the gates of Hell.
He leaned against the wall.
“I’ll have Aileen bring you a coffee,” I said.
“She beat you to it. Already had my first one when she brought your girl breakfast. Should be getting my second here shortly.”
Your girl.
Good.
They should think that. It was only a matter of time before everyone knew. Every fiber urged me to storm into that room and feed her from my fingers. To tuck that precious omega in beside me while she slept.
“Has she been eating?”
“I think so. Aileen’s been dropping off food and water a few times a day.”
Oil slipped across my fingers as I scrubbed a hand through my beard. Had Aileen coaxed her to eat and drink enough?
Stubborn omega probably hadn’t. Not without my alpha to coaxher. That wouldn’t do. Next time, I would be there to take care of her.
Reluctantly, I left my private wing and strode into my office, surprised to see Torin already there, perched in my chair like a king lounging over his subjects.
“You think nearly dying means you get to act like a shite?”
A confident grin slid across his lips. Bloody Scotsman pretending to be Irish. He was a pain in the arse at the best of times.
“I figured I’d test my luck. Since you didn’t pull your pistol on me, I’d say it was a win.”
“Get the fuck out of my chair,” I hissed, tapping my waistband in warning.
“Fine, you twitchy-fingered fuck.” Torin snorted, moving to the other side of my desk and collapsing into the oversized armchair.
Bandages poked out from beneath his collar.
After years, the man finally dressed appropriately when coming to work.
Apparently, eight years in the Marines taught him nothing. Or he chose to ignore everything. Aidan finally convinced him that a clean t-shirt was not a dress shirt.
At the bar cart, I poured two glasses of whisky, handing one to Torin, who accepted with a dip of his chin.
“How is it?” I asked, pointing at the covered wound.
“Hurts like a bitch, but liquor helps,” he said, raising his glass in salute and taking a long drag. His eyes widened, holding the glass at a distance to examine the amber liquid. “Shite. You gave me the good stuff. You must want something.”
I put down my glass, crossing my arms over my chest. Noticing the shift in my demeanor, Torin straightened, his expression turning serious as he emptied the last of the whisky.
