I’m left completely alone in the unfamiliar bedroom, my body burning from the inside out and my thoughts in absolute chaos, with nothing but the distant sound of the ocean to keep me company.
NINETEEN
JUDAH
I followMason through the house without giving myself time to think.
His shoulders are rigid, his stride purposeful despite having no idea where he’s going in this labyrinth of hallways. Left at the family portraits. Right past the linen closet. Through the door that leads to the back staircase.
He doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t look back.
“Mace.”
The old nickname slips out before I can stop it, soft and careful, testing the waters. He flinches like I’ve struck him, his feet finally stopping at the landing between floors.
“Don’t call me that,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. Still not looking at me.
“What should I call you, then?”
“Nothing. You shouldn’t call me anything.” He grips the banister, knuckles going white. “I came here because Phoenix needed a place to stay during her heat. That’s it. That’s the only reason.”
I step closer, close enough to catch his scent beneath the expensive cologne—chamomile and black pepper, exactly like Iremember but somehow different. More refined. Like he’s taken what was naturally him and polished it until all the rough edges disappeared.
“You came tomyhouse,” I point out.
His jaw clenches. “She came. I just followed.”
“You could have stopped her.”
“You don’t stop Phoenix from doing anything she’s already decided to do.” Finally, he turns. Those storm-gray eyes meet mine, and the impact nearly drops me to my knees. Ten years. It’s been ten years since I’ve been this close to him, and nothing—nothing—has changed about the way my entire body responds to his proximity. “Trust me, I tried.”
Atticus appears at the top of the stairs, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Everything okay down here?”
Mason and I both turn to look at him, and I’m struck by how young he seems despite being in his late twenties. There’s something unfinished about him, like he’s still figuring out who he wants to be when he grows up.
Dominic materializes from the opposite direction, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. His dark eyes flick between the four of us, reading the tension with the ease of someone who’s spent his whole life cataloging danger.
“Well,” he drawls, “this isn’t awkward at all.”
“Definitely feeling like a bit of a third wheel here,” Atticus adds with an awkward laugh.
Dominic raises an eyebrow. “You like motorcycles, Hollywood?”
Atticus seems to pick up on what Dom is putting down immediately. “Right now, I definitely do.”
Dom nods. “Perfect. I’ve got a ’72 Triumph in the garage that’ll make you weep. Come check it out.”
They disappear down the hallway, Dominic’s voice fading as he launches into what’s probably going to be a twenty-minutemonologue about carburetors. The silence they leave behind is deafening.
Mason turns away again, resuming his escape down the stairs.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“To make sure you have whatever Phoenix will need. She seems to be under the impression that you have an omega mate here.”
“Mason—”
“Stop.” He whirls around so fast I nearly crash into him. We’re separated by three steps, close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his eyes, the tiny scar on his chin from when he fell off his bike at fourteen. “Just… stop. Please.”
