I assumed he went home, wherever that was, that mysterious apartment he won’t name. But the sound is coming from the office couch, and the only other person who falls asleep there, other than us, is the same man who let me sit in his lap a few hours ago.
Lorenzo’s arm tightens as I shift. “Oliver.”
“He’s downstairs.”
“I hear it.”
“I’m going.”
His fingers trail along my hip as I slip free, a silent promise in that one touch. I already know my Beta is going to check the cameras the moment I leave the apartment to ensure it isn’t something else. In my heart, though, I know it’s Wilson. It has to be. I need it to be.
My feet hit the cold hardwood and I snatch my hoodie off the chair and pull it on as I slip out of the bedroom. The sharp tang of lemon cleaner lingers in the hallway and down the stairs, mixed with the hollow undercurrent of bodies long gone. But in the air I catch Wilson’s scent, too strong if he’d really left.
I find the office door cracked, pale lamplight leaking into the dark hallway. Inside, Wilson is curled on the couch, knees pulled tight to his chest, one arm flung over his face. His other hand is clawed into the cushion, fingers digging into the fabric. Ragged sounds spill from his throat, broken words strangled by clenched teeth. His shirt has ridden up, his ribs taut, his whole body caught in an invisible struggle.
I pad down the hall to the supply closet, before grabbing three fleece blankets from the shelf. I haul them back to him, drape the first over the couch, tuck it around the cushions, and then fold the second over his legs.
His breathing shudders and then a whimper breaks free, the sound vibrating through my chest. “Wilson.” My voice is soft as I kneel at the couch’s edge. “Hey, come back to me.”
His arm lashes out, smacking my chest so hard I wind up. I seize his wrist before it pulls away. His eyes snap open, his pupils blown wide, his irises nearly gone. He’s staring past me, braced for something that isn’t there.
“It’s me, Oliver. You’re at the club. You fell asleep in the office.”
He blinks, confusion rippling over his face. Recognition comes in pieces, his gaze sliding to the lamp, to the filing cabinet, and then to the blankets before he looks back at me.
“Oliver,” he breathes, as if saying my name anchors him here, now.
“Just me.” I release his wrist slowly. “You were dreaming.”
He pushes himself upright against the arm of the couch, his shirt collar twisted from the thrashing, and for a second the fabric pulls away from the right side of his neck.
I see the scar running from below his ear to the curve of his shoulder, raised ridges of puckered, discolored tissue, angry welts that look like something was ripped from his body without care for what it left behind. The damage is too wide and too deep for anything surgical or clean.
He yanks his collar back into place, knuckles whitening on the fabric. When his eyes meet mine, I recognize the terror there, the naked panic of being uncovered. Instead of asking, I just pull the third blanket around his shoulders.
“Scoot forward.”
He does, and I slide in behind him on the couch, pressing my back into the armrest, my legs bracketing his. Every muscle in his shoulders locks against my chest. His scent has turned sour, the warmth stripped out of it, leaving something sour that settles heavy in my lungs.
“You can push me off,” I murmur close to the back of his head. “But I’m going to be annoying about coming back.”
Seconds pass. His breathing stutters on every inhale, his fists burying themselves in the blanket across his lap. Then his shoulders soften just a fraction, his weight sinking into me. His spine follows, the rigid line of it easing until he leans back against me, head tilting to rest on my collarbone.
“There you are,” I murmur into the office as I wrap my arms around his chest. He lets go of the blanket and grips my forearms instead, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
I settle my chin atop his head. His curls, damp with sweat, tickle my jaw. There’s nothing to say, no question he’ll answer. So I hold him, breathing against the back of his skull, letting my rhythm find its way between us. After a few minutes, his ragged inhales begin to match mine, smoothing out.
“Don’t ask me about it,” he rasps.
“Wasn’t going to.”
“People always ask.”
“I’m not people.”
His grip slackens slightly, every second I don’t ask allowing him to relax a little more until a snore permeates the silence. Something protective unfurls in my chest as I tug him closer, promising myself that Wilson won’t have to sleep by himself again.
A noise at the edge of the room has me looking up to see Lorenzo, his eyes half-lidded, a wiry smile on his face. He’s shirtless, my beautiful Beta gently setting down the keys to the place on the counter. I don’t even have to say anything as he stalks over and climbs in on the other side of Wilson, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.
