Lorenzo looks up, that smile still playing on his lips. He closes his notebook with deliberate slowness to keep my anticipation up.
“I had the pleasure of tucking our new omega into bed last night,” he says, his accent thickening with satisfaction.
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. First Marcus with his caveman approach, eating her out like a fucking animal in heat, and now Lorenzo? A stab of jealousy twists inmy chest, hot and unexpected. I keep my face carefully neutral, but my grip tightens on the arm of the couch.
“Is that so?” I ask, my voice deceptively casual. “And what exactly does ‘tucking in’ entail in your vocabulary?”
Lorenzo leans back, stretching his arms above his head. “She was having quite the vivid dream when I checked on her. Moaning so sweetly, I had to investigate.”
My cock stirs at the mental image of Anya writhing in her sheets, flushed and needy. I cross my legs to hide my growing erection.
“And?” I prompt, trying to sound bored rather than desperate for details.
“And I simply helped her finish what her dream had started,” he says with a shrug, as if it’s nothing. “All I did was eat her out. You should have tasted her, Alaric. So fucking good. Like the best grapes you’ll ever have.”
The image of Anya’s thighs spread wide, her delicate fingers gripping Lorenzo’s dark curls as he devours her fills my dirty mind. Her head thrown back, mouth open in silent ecstasy, those violet eyes glazed with pleasure. I imagine the slick glistening on her pink pussy lips, Lorenzo’s eager tongue lapping it up like it’s the finest delicacy.
I swallow hard as I shift in my seat, my cock now fully hard, straining against my tailored pants. I’m about to ask for more details when the soft pad of footsteps makes me look up.
There she is.
Anya stands in the doorway, a vision in a red sundress that steals the breath from my lungs. The fabric hugs her curves, the hem stopping just above her knees to reveal smooth, creamy thighs that I’d give anything to touch. Her blond hair is pulled up in a high ponytail, exposing the delicate line of her neck. White slippers adorn her small feet, making her look innocent and fuckable at the same time.
“Good morning,” Lorenzo and I say in unison, both of us straightening like schoolboys called to attention.
A blush spreads across her cheeks, and she deliberately avoids looking at Lorenzo. I note this instantly. So he wasn’t lying to me.
“Good morning,” she replies, her voice soft and a little husky. She chooses the armchair across from me, perching on the edge like she might need to run at any moment.
“Did you sleep well?” I ask, unable to resist testing her reaction.
As expected, her face reddens further, the blush spreading down her neck toward her chest. My cock hardens further. She fidgets with the hem of her dress. “Yes, thank you.”
Our chef emerges from the kitchen in his crisp, pristine white uniform. “Would you like anything to eat or drink, Miss Rosewood?”
She looks relieved at the interruption. “Just an omelet is fine, and coffee, please.”
“Coming right up,” the chef says with a slight bow before retreating to the kitchen.
I study her while she’s distracted, taking in every detail. Despite her embarrassment, she seems more relaxed today and less like a frightened deer. Her scent is stronger too—that delicious grape aroma that marks her as omega.
“Do you miss your family?” I ask, genuinely curious about her and what she’s feeling.
Her reaction is immediate and visceral. Her shoulders stiffen, her jaw clenches, and something dark flashes in her eyes.
“Hell no,” she says with surprising venom.
Now I’m even more intrigued. I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Why’s that?”
She hesitates, clearly debating how much to share. I wait patiently, giving her space to decide.
“I was raised by my dad, who was... emotionally absent most of the time,” she finally says, her voice measured. “And a step-mother who hated my guts.”
Something protective stirs in my chest. An omega child abandoned and raised by humans who couldn’t understand what she was or what she needed. It’s a miracle she survived at all.
“What did your step-mother do?” I ask.
Anya’s fingers twist the fabric of her dress. “She made it very clear I wasn’t welcome. She had her own kids, and they were the priority. I was just... baggage from my dad’s previous marriage.”
