9. Mason

9

MASON

Even before I open my eyes, I sense it: Tristan is gone. The signs are everywhere—in the absence of his scent, in the chill of the bedsheets beside me, in the lack of his soft, rhythmic breathing when he sleeps. I keep my lids closed, trying to hang onto the happiness of the past few days, but I give in to the crushing sense of loss all too quickly. I may as well; I'm only fooling myself.

Reluctantly, I sit up and blink away the sunlight pouring through the windows. The sheets are drawn back on Tristan's side of the bed. A silk pajama shirt is draped over a chaise. An empty wrapper from one of his strawberry candies still sits on the nightstand. If it wasn't for the addition of one small item—a slip of paper placed upon his pillow—it would almost seem possible he might still be here.

I reach for the note. It's tiny, wrinkled, and inauspicious. For a split second before I read the tidy handwriting sprawled across it, I hope it might contain an explanation from Tristan regarding why he's left so abruptly. Or a promise to come back. Or some way to reach him. But none of that is written.

I'm sorry , is all it says.

I am, too, I think. But I can only guess if we have the same reasons.

I'm sorry I'll never again feel Tristan tickle the underside of my chin or taste the juice of an orange dripping from his. I lament that I won't see the way his lips form a soft smile and his eyes grow hazy when he comes. I regret that I won't be there to wake him when he has a nightmare or to reassure him when he tries something new. And I grieve that it won't be him playing with our son in the hallway or holding our child in his arms when I step out of my office to kiss him.

But I am not, nor will I ever be, sorry to have spent these past few days with Tristan. They've meant too much to me, despite how much I already miss him.

I move through the house in a daze, showering, dressing, and heading downstairs on autopilot, without conscious thought. It's a good thing my body knows what it's doing because my mind and heart are clueless, broken and lost.

You knew this was temporary, Dawes, I remind myself. You knew not to hope for more.

But I didn't listen to myself that night in my study when I found Tristan, and it's no easier to listen now, either.

In the kitchen, I scoop the last of the grounds into the coffeemaker and opt for the espresso setting. I'm going to need the extra pick-me-up today. While the machine brews, I notice the bowl of fruit on the counter nearby. It's been refilled since I last saw it. I pick up an orange and roll it in my hands. Then, closing my eyes, I sniff it, remembering the scent of citrus on Tristan's skin, then the taste of him, then the stickiness of his?—

"Breakfast for two in your room again today, Senator?"

I'm busted.

My eyes jerk open, and I nearly drop the orange. My first instinct is to hide it, like I tried to do when Da caught me with my first omega nudie magazine as a teenager. But my embarrassment is silly, isn't it? No one knows what Tristan and I did with oranges the other morning except us. There's no reason to feel guilty.

More like sad, I suppose.

Placing the fruit back in the bowl, I watch Jack emerge from the pantry while cinching the ties of an apron around his waist. He blinks back at me expectantly.

"No … Not today, thank you," I tell him.

A question flits across his expression—something about Tristan, undoubtedly. But the beep of the coffeemaker saves me from having to answer.

"I'll be in my office if anyone is looking for me." Quickly, I pour out my cup and walk toward the door. "I have much work to catch up on."

Work is good, I remind myself as I go. Work is a distraction. It's what got me through losing Luke. It can help me get over Tristan, too.

But the second I step inside my office, a deluge of memories washes over me again. There's the sofa where Tristan and I fucked. Twice. And the Fairchild painting I'd hoped he'd love as much as I do. Outside the windows, there's even a view of the patio and pool. He is everywhere and nowhere, as impossible to escape as he is to reach out and touch.

Sighing, I flop into my desk chair. How many days have passed since that night Tristan went into heat? Three? Four? Five? I don't know. It's all gone by in a blur. And yet, in such a short time, he's somehow managed to haunt every corner of this house. At the rate I'm going, it'll take me a millennium to recover.

About twenty minutes later, while I'm still staring blankly out the window at the pool, someone knocks on my office door.

"Come in."

Vincent, dressed to the nines with a teacup in hand, strides in and takes a seat on the sofa. I close my eyes and rub at the lids, trying to ignore the images of Tristan touching himself that immediately flicker through my mind.

"Jack mentioned I could find you here," Vincent says. "Up early again, I see."

It's useless. I might have to burn that damn sofa in the end.

"Yes, well, there's work to be done on the claiming bill if we expect it to pass." I swallow down the last of my espresso and reach for the stack of papers sitting next to my laptop.

"Excellent, the team will be glad to have you back. I'll schedule a call to get you up to speed."

"That would be great," I mumble. I try to concentrate on the page in front of me, but the words make no sense. They're just a collection of random letters.

Apparently, I can't even distract myself properly.

Vincent goes quiet. I feel his eyes on me, studying my every movement. After a moment, he clears his throat, and his tone shifts from upbeat to concerned.

"How is your guest faring this morning? In recovery now, I assume?"

As usual, he sees right through me.

"Tristan's gone, actually."

"Gone?"

Nodding, I push aside my papers again. "Sometime after midnight. His heat was waning, and it seems he chose not to stay."

"That's a shame. I wouldn't take it personally, though. Some omegas prefer to recover in private. The very scent of their alpha is offput?—"

"It wasn't like that. He left without saying goodbye. He left …" I swallow the lump in my throat. "He left without leaving me any way to contact him."

"I see." Frowning, Vincent swirls the liquid in his teacup as if trying to find answers in the leaves. "I'm sorry to hear that. I know how much you liked him."

"He liked me, too, Vincent. I know he did. I felt it—this was different. Different from Luke." I sound like a spoiled child shouting and stomping his feet, but I can't help it. The words must be said. He needs to understand I'm not the same foolish, lovesick boy I was back in those days. I've grown.

The omega's eyes widen. Patiently, he sets aside his teacup and leans over the armrest of the sofa to get closer. "Mason, I would never insult you by suggesting what you shared with Tristan wasn't real. If you say it was more than simple pheromones, then I believe you."

"Oh." I slump in my seat like a wilted flower. One defeat after another today. What's next? The claiming ban?

Gods, I hope not.

Yet Vincent surprises me. Instead of passing judgment on my bad behavior, he remains gentle. "Would you care to tell me what transpired?"

Running my hands through my hair, I nod. "I don't know what changed. Tristan seemed happy—a little quiet, maybe, after I showed him the Fairchild painting last night—but content." I glance toward the artwork overhead. Will I ever be able to look at it again without thinking of him? Then, shaking my head, I finally admit the fear I've been concealing all morning. "I don't know. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe this is like Luke again. It's possible I overwhelmed him, but it was more like … more like something happened."

"Well, what do you know about him? Perhaps we can figure this out together."

I stare at the painting's soft colors and brushstrokes, the gentleness in the way the alpha and omega gaze at each other. "His home life is unhappy. I don't know the details. His Papa died. He didn't say much about his father and brothers, but it was clear enough that he fears them. I suspect they're the worst kind of alphas."

"Anything else?"

"He likes strawberry candies from Waterstone Street, as you already know, and never learned how to swim."

"That's not much to go on, I'm afraid."

I nod. "I know. It's hopeless, isn't it?"

"It's not hope ful . Do you know Tristan's surname, at least?"

The question tears me from my daze. "Tristan's not his real name."

Vincent's forehead crinkles. "It isn't?"

I'd almost forgotten. He'd asked me to call him Tristan, and I never stopped. "No. It's Henry. Jack would know his surname—he'd have gotten it from the catering agency."

"I'll ask him, then. Maybe we can find this Tristan-Henry of yours, and you can get the closure you seek."

The omega's words barely register. Vincent stands, and I notice a flicker of metal on the floor by his feet, just beneath the sofa. Then, I remember: Tristan had something in his hand when I'd found him the night he went into heat. He'd startled. He'd dropped it. And in the frenzy of everything that followed, we'd both forgotten about it.

"Wait!" I call, getting up from my desk.

Vincent beats me to the punch. Following my gaze, he bends down to pick up the item before I get to it.

"What is that?"

He turns toward me, a lock pick in his hand. "Tristan's, I assume?"

"Yes." My throat goes dry as I take the pick from him and examine it for myself. There are almost too many questions to ask. Why did he have this? Was this how he got into my study? Did he try it in the door before he came through the window?

I look up as I rack my brain, trying to remember that night.

The painting.

Tristan was standing here, near the Fairchild when I found him. And when I brought him back to my study to see it again, he'd grown distant. I'd assumed he'd been feeling nostalgia for his Papa. But what if it was more than that? I'd been quick to dismiss the idea of him stealing from me, but maybe I'd been wrong. What if my first instincts had been right?

What if the painting was his target?

Maybe I should be angry—and I suppose a part of me is. But I never questioned him; he never lied. And I feel the truth in my bones too strongly to stay upset: with or without his heat, Tristan would not have stolen from me. I'm certain. The fact the Fairchild is still hanging in my office is proof of his changed intentions.

But what if he was supposed to steal it?

Vincent's eyes meet mine, and although he doesn't say so, it's clear he shares my suspicions.

"He didn't go through with it," I say.

"I know."

"He wouldn't have. He couldn't have. It's too big. No matter what he's done in the past—even if he's thieved before—he doesn't have this kind of deceit inside him."

The omega brushes my arm kindly. "I know, Mason. And I agree."

My heart thunders as I remember the nightmares Tristan had—his fear of his father, all the pleading. There was something he didn't want to do. What if the two are connected? I lower myself onto the sofa and cradle my head in my hands, wishing I'd sought answers sooner, while there was still time for me to help him.

"Someone must have put Tristan up to this," I croak. "He could be in danger for not delivering. He could be hurt—or worse."

"He could be," Vincent agrees.

I look up again, determined. "I want to find him."

My friend nods solemnly. "Then we will."

Only work saves me over the next few days. The claiming ban vote is in a mere week, and there's no time to lose. I call my allies in the Senate, make speeches on the floor, and do interviews with the media. In between it all, I ask Vincent for updates on the search for Tristan. If it was a simple matter of him not wanting me—of not caring for me enough—I'd let him go, the way I did Luke. But the idea of him being in danger is torture. I pace the hallways at night, barely able to sleep. I paint one scenario after another in my mind, fearing the worst.

Whatever trouble he's in, I'm sure his father is behind it somehow.

"Still no news?" I ask Vincent as we get into the town car the morning of the vote on the claiming amendment.

He shakes his head as he hands me a copy of my schedule for the day. "I'm sorry, Senator. Our private investigator says the catering paperwork turned out to be a dead-end. The address and phone number on his employment documents are all false, and the handwriting on the forms doesn't even match the note Tristan left behind."

My heart sinks. "What does that mean?"

"It means you were right about Tristan being planted at the fundraiser that night, for one thing. And for another …" Vincent sighs.

"What?"

"For another, we're not sure Henry Harris ever existed to begin with."

The words are like a kick to my stomach, forcing the air from my lungs. It takes a moment before I remember to breathe, and when I do, I can only stare out the window, watching the streets of Auden City roll by.

"I wish I had better news, Mason. Truly, I do." Vincent squeezes my shoulder. "You're very much like a son to me, and I want you to be happy. Besides, I liked Tristan, from what I could tell. So did Jack … Did you know Tristan defended another omega from bullying by the other waitstaff the night of the fundraiser?"

I shake my head, but my heart flutters pleasantly. Such a kind and helpful man, my Tristan. A champion of the vulnerable, just like me.

"Well, he did. Jack told me."

The drive is short, and the capitol comes into view then, the clocktower looming in the background. It's a reminder in all ways possible how I'm running out of time.

Tucking my schedule into the briefcase resting on my lap, I reach for the handle to the door. But Vincent stops me.

"Try not to focus too much on this today, Senator. You have the vote, and we have other leads—like the lock pick you found, for one," he tells me. "We'll find him. One way or another, we'll find Tristan."

Nodding, I push open the door.

We'll find Tristan.

My foot hits the pavement, but I twist in my seat when something occurs to me. "Vincent, what if Tristan is Henry's real name?"

"Congratulations, Senator Dawes."

"We've heard the good news, Senator Dawes."

"Well done, Senator Dawes—we look forward to more great things from you."

Hours later, I can barely move through the crowd on the front steps of the capitol. Some are my staff and colleagues, others are passersby or the media. All have already heard the news: despite the opposition's threats, the claiming ban passed the Senate's vote. Grinning, I shake hands and thank those who stop me for their support. If only they knew I can't get to Vincent, waiting by my town car on the street level, fast enough.

"Senator, how do you feel about your amendment passing today's vote?"

A journalist corners me as I reach the lower set of steps and sticks a microphone in my face before I can wave him away. A cameraman hovers behind. Another one of Vincent's cardinal rules of politics flashes through my mind.

Always smile for the camera.

"Today represents a great victory for omega rights, while serving as proof that Arden's senate is truly capable of working together. I look forward to President Walsh signing the claiming ban into law."

"Well said, Senator," the man agrees.

"Senator, over here!"

Another journalist flags me down. Gods, how they're swarming. I hadn't planned for a full-blown press conference. I wave for Vincent to join me. Usually, we rehearse my responses to potential questions. After how distracted I've been with thoughts of Tristan, though, I find myself feeling unprepared.

"Senator, as I'm sure you're aware, there are rumors of an attempted robbery after your recent fundraiser," says the second journalist. "Something involving a painting. Do you care to comment on what happened?"

They know. How do they know about Tristan and the Fairchild? Vincent wades toward me, but he won't get here in time. I have to think fast.

Neither confirm nor deny.

"Who is your source of information?" I ask with a chuckle.

The reporter flips through a notepad briefly before looking up again. "A member of your own staff, Senator—one who spoke on the condition of anonymity."

It figures. Like Tristan said, someone is always watching me, even inside my own home. I bet it was that security guard who glanced at us that afternoon by the pool. Still, I shrug dismissively.

"I see. Well, let me be the first to assure you there was no robbery." I flash a grin. "The only thing that's been recently stolen is my heart."

A fresh wave of questions follow as the crowd works itself into a fervor.

"Who is the lucky omega, Senator?"

"How long have you been together?"

"Where did you meet?"

Vincent reaches my side. "No more questions," he announces before hooking his arm through mine and leading me back to the car. "Senator Dawes will release an official statement later today. Thank you for understanding."

A collective groan rises across the crowd. The commotion only fades when we make it into the vehicle.

"My, my, Senator Dawes," Vincent says, beaming at me as the driver pulls out into traffic. "You've barely begun your first term and yet have already made more progress than most politicians with ten times your experience."

"I'll have to call Father and Da later to tell them the news."

"Yes—and that's not our only cause for celebration."

"Oh?"

"It's Tristan, Mason. Our PI found him." He passes me a manila envelope, and his smile broadens. "Everything you need to know is here."

"We found him …" I echo, hoarse. After so much worrying and wondering, the news is surreal. As I eagerly take the packet and unfasten the clasp, Vincent nods.

"Sometimes," he says, "I think fate knows better than we do who we need in our lives and when."