Chapter 8

8

M y heartbeat fills my ears as I press myself against the wall at the top of the stairs, listening to the muffled conversation below.

Caleb's deep voice mixes with another man's, and I strain to glimpse the police officer on the other side of the door.

"What can I do for you before dawn?" Caleb asks, his tone guarded.

"Apologies for the early hour," the stranger replies. "My name is Officer Pritchard. I'm from Gritmore precinct."

My heart skips a beat. I recognize him, though he's not an officer I've interacted with often. What is he doing all the way up north ?

"We had an anonymous tip that you were seen with an Omega named Oliver Kent, who appeared to be in distress," the officer continues. "We did a wellness check on Mr. Kent, but he wasn't home, and some neighbors reported hearing glass breaking inside his apartment."

My mind races back to the young Alpha who tried to stop Caleb from taking me away. I never thought he'd actually report the incident, and I'm shocked any of the people in my complex would draw attention to what happened.

My neighborhood is every man for himself, which is why so many Omegas can go missing without the news reporting on it.

Caleb remains silent, his back to the stairs and his hand gripping the door, blocking Officer Pritchard from seeing inside.

"I know you came home twenty minutes ago with someone else in your vehicle," Officer Pritchard says. "If you don't produce Oliver, I'll come back with a warrant."

Panic floods through me. If they search this place, they'll find all sorts of things hidden behind Caleb's artwork and under his sofa. Things that would disrupt the image of the playboy persona he's so carefully crafted to show the world .

Motions hurried, I strip off my shoes and pants, undo the top three buttons on my shirt, ruffle my hair, and bite hard on my lips so they appear kiss-swollen.

I descend the stairs, doing my best to look sex-rumpled and hide the limp from my injured foot. "Babe, is it the groceries?"

Caleb peers over his shoulders, and his eyes widen in surprise, then narrow as he assesses the situation. He hesitates for a moment before stepping aside to reveal me to Officer Pritchard.

The officer tries to maintain a professional demeanor, but his cheeks flush with embarrassment when his focus latches onto my bare legs.

"Oliver." Caleb strides over and cups my hip. "It's not the delivery man. Sorry for keeping you waiting." He shoots the officer an exasperated glare.

I pout and cling to Caleb's shoulders, playing up my role of sex kitten for all I'm worth. "But you promised you'd be right back with whipped cream."

The officer's face turns even redder, and a small sense of satisfaction fills me at his flustered blush. "I apologize for disrupting your morning, but we had an anonymous tip that you're here under duress."

I flutter my lashes at him. "Well, the handcuffs haven't come out yet, but give us another twenty minutes, and they might."

Caleb swats me on the ass hard enough to sting. "Behave."

My breath catches, and I suddenly question the decision to ditch my pants. My boxers aren't up for restraining my excitement at the brief flash of pain.

Caleb smirks, well aware of the effect his little punishment has on me.

The expression vanishes, though, before he turns to address the officer. "Now that you've verified Oliver is safe and sound, I assume you can leave?"

The officer hesitates, his eyes flickering between Caleb and me. "Actually, I need to speak with Mr. Kent alone."

Caleb raises an eyebrow and looks at me, his focus dropping to the slight tent in the front of my shirt and my bare legs. With a sigh, he pulls off his polo and ties it around my waist, covering me down to the knees.

My attention latches onto the muscular chest and black inkwork, now on full display. The design hugs the curve of his torso on the right side, stretching from the bottom of his ribs to his hip.

None of my reports contained information about a tattoo .

He fixes the officer with a warning stare. "Keep your hands to yourself."

Warning delivered, he strides to the kitchen, leaving us alone.

"Please, have a seat." The officer gestures toward the living room.

I step off the stairs and walk over to perch on the edge of the armchair, forcing him to sit on the couch.

He takes out his phone to reference his notes and clears his throat. "So, how did you come to be here, Mr. Kent?"

I cross my ankles. "I arrived in Caleb's car, as you said."

"And where were you before coming here?"

"His family's estate." I see no reason to lie when traffic cams can prove we left the city.

"How did you and Caleb come to be together?" he asks, struggling to keep his attention off my bare legs.

"He wanted to discuss an article I had written, and we hit it off." Also true, kind of, sort of, in a roundabout way.

"Your neighbors reported hearing glass breaking inside your apartment. Can you explain that?"

"We got a little… passionate and knocked over a la mp." I lower my head to hide my amusement at the officer's obvious discomfort.

"Are you here of your own free will, Oliver?"

My head lifts, and I hold his eyes. "There's no other place I'd rather be."

The sound of a plastic bottle cracking open fills the air, and Caleb joins us in the living room.

"Here you go, sugar." He hands the water to me. "You're probably parched from earlier."

"Thanks, babe." I take a sip, and a bead of cool liquid slides down my throat to catch in my collarbone.

Caleb turns to the officer. "If everything is settled, I'd like to take Oliver back to bed now."

"Uh, yes, for now. Sorry for the disturbance." The officer stands and extends a hand toward me. "Here's my card, in case you need anything."

I take it from him. "Thank you."

Caleb walks the officer to the door. "I'd appreciate it if you kept this little visit on the down-low. We'd prefer the press not get wind of our relationship until we're ready to make a public statement. I don't want any unwanted attention from news channels scaring Oliver off."

"Of course." The officer nods in understanding. "I'll do my best to keep the report under wraps. "

Caleb closes the door behind the officer, locking it before turning to me with raised brows. "Didn't I tell you to stay upstairs?"

"Would you rather they searched your house?" I shoot back.

Expression softening, Caleb walks over to stand in front of me. "My lawyers never would have allowed it."

"So you're saying I flashed some skin for nothing?" I gesture to my exposed calves.

"Not for nothing." Caleb bends to untie the shirt from around my waist, and he traces up my thighs, slipping beneath the hem of my boxers. "It's good to know your first instinct is to protect me."

My pulse quickens at his touch, and I instinctively spread my legs, scooting lower on the couch.

Nostrils flaring, Caleb leans down to kiss me just as the doorbell rings, interrupting our moment again .

"Dammit," Caleb mutters under his breath, straightening back up. "That better not be more police."

I hook my fingers in his belt loops. "Force them to come back with a warrant."

He smooths a hand over the top of my head to thread through my black strands. "You begging for it is a nice look."

"I've been begging for it." I reach for his zipper. "Reward me."

The hand in my hair tightens. "Don't be greedy."

A whine of protest leaves me as my hands drop to the cushion.

Caleb smirks as he pulls out his phone and stares at the screen. "It's our groceries."

"Leave them on the porch." The bulge in the front of Caleb's pants holds all of my attention. "They can wait."

He shakes his head. "If you recall, you ordered four pints of ice cream."

"Fine." Defeated, I flop back on the couch.

Begging for it was the wrong choice, and now Caleb is in the mood to torment me again. I hate it and love it all at the same time.

A teasing grin plays over his lips as he heads for the door. "Go figure out where the movers put the skillet so we can make breakfast."

My stomach rumbles, reminding me that I haven't eaten since…lunch two days ago? I push myself up from the chair to go dig through Caleb's cupboards .

I find the pans in a cabinet across the kitchen from the range, which is the wrong place for them. Obviously, they should be within easy-grabbing distance for the cook.

Caleb joins me with the bags of groceries and doesn't comment when he catches me reorganizing where everything goes. Half the shelves are empty, so it's clear he's not a chef, despite the luxury appliances.

When he sets a stainless-steel skillet on the stove and reaches for the cooking spray, I shove him over to the island and set a mixing bowl in front of him. "You'll ruin the pan like that. Crack the eggs while I handle this."

He flips open the carton of free-range, organic eggs to reveal an eclectic mixture of blue, brown, and white. I hope more color means a better flavor than the ones I buy on discount. "How was I about to ruin the pan? The food will stick if you don't grease it."

I stuff the cooking spray into the cupboard within reach and grab the new box of butter. "It burns at a lower temperature and causes a residue build-up."

He cracks eggs into the bowl. "Isn't that called seasoning the pan?"

Horrified, I turn from lighting the gas burner to stare at him. "No. Where did you learn to cook? "

"The internet." He shrugs. "We have staff at the estate who prepare meals."

I shake my head and pull out some veggies for omelets. "Of course, you do."

"Is six enough?" When I nod and hand him the whisk I found in the island drawer, he gets to mixing. "Who taught you how to cook?"

"My papa, mostly. Every Sunday, he'd make a special breakfast." A sad smile plays on my lips as I chop. "I tried to keep it going when I moved back to take care of Dylan, but when he got his own place, it was too much work for just one person. It felt pointless."

"We never did Sunday brunches."

Surprise shoots through me. "No? But your family is so big and close-knit."

"Big families mean lots of chaos, and something was always going on. When we were home from boarding school, meals were open buffets, and people grabbed food when they had a second to spare." He peers into the egg bowl, decides they're whipped enough, and pushes it over to me. "We always sat down for holidays, though. Noisy dinners with everyone talking at once."

"Sounds nice." I add the butter to the pan, then the veggies to sauté them. "My parents wanted a large family, but after me, it took a while before Dylan was conceived, and the pregnancy was hard on my papa, so my father said no more. He was so worried about losing Papa. No one ever considered he might go first."

The food blurs in front of my stinging eyes, and I shake my head, trying to swallow down the emotion.

Caleb's warm body presses up behind me. "You've never let yourself grieve, have you?"

"There was no time." A tear rolls down my cheek, and I swipe it away before it drops into the skillet. "Papa was in so much pain that someone needed to be strong, and then when he passed, I had Dylan to look after."

Another tear escapes, and I search for the paper towels only to find gleaming, empty countertops. I lift the collar of my shirt to wipe my face.

Caleb remains quiet, offering his warmth as comfort if not his words.

The tears fall faster, and I turn off the burner so I don't ruin the veggies. "Why do you even care?"

"I've killed many people in my life, most of them bad, all of them wanting to live. But you, Oliver… You were already dead. Your body just hadn't finished shutting down yet." He bends, his nose finding the sensitive spot behind my ear, and he breathes in deep. "Ki lling is easy, but I've never brought a person back to life."

A shiver goes through me. "That makes no sense."

"Neither does obsessing over celebrities, but here we are." He scoots me out of the way and turns the stove back on. "Go put on some pants while I finish breakfast."

Grateful for a reprieve from the heavy emotions in the air, I limp toward the stairs. "If you burn it, I'm ordering the most expensive delivery I can find."

"Then I hope you enjoy goose egg Benedict topped with beluga caviar and gold flake," he calls after me.

I limp back into the kitchen. "Goose egg?"

He nods. "Only available in the spring, so it's a seasonal dish."

"And here I thought I was being bougie with the free-range eggs." I glare at the carton, which now feels less fancy.

"We can order it tomorrow." Caleb stabs at the pan like he's trying to murder the veggies. "The restaurant needs advanced notice."

"Sure, suggest something that can't be delivered right now," I grumble, though there's no real heat behind it, since I'll probably dislike goose eggs as much as I do chicken .

"Dress. Now."

I limp back out of the kitchen and up the stairs, pulling on the pants I abandoned on the landing. Then, unable to resist the temptation, I walk into Caleb's room and flip on the light.

A soft, golden glow comes from a pair of bedside lamps that bracket a king-sized mattress, the frame heavy and made of wrought iron. Caleb's threat to tie me to his headboard flashes through my memory, and I swallow hard as feverish desire rushes through me.

My feet carry me across the room to the bed, and I run my hand along the back of the thick post, finding the industrial metal ring attached to the back. A chain dangles from it, ending in padded handcuffs lined in black fur. It feels soft beneath my fingertips, and I lift it to my nose, searching for the scent of another.

Caleb said he didn't bring people here to entertain them, and as far as I can tell, he hasn't used these. My pulse pounds hard through my body, the thought of being tied down, with no other option except to submit, nearly bringing me to my knees.

Before I give in to the temptation to lock myself up and roll around in his sheets, marking them with my pheromones, I drop the cuff and back out of the room, turning the lights off .

Then I go to the hall bathroom and splash cold water over my flushed cheeks until the fever subsides.

Caleb Rockford is going to tear through all of my defenses and break me into pieces. Who will I be when he puts me back together?

And do I even care, so long as he keeps me?