10. Tristan

10

TRISTAN

Father has barely spoken to me in days. There's only the occasional grunt. Every now and then, he'll talk about me as though I'm not there, asking Dane or Blaise to convey a message.

"Dane, tell the omega to clear my plate from the table."

"Blaise, tell the omega to finish sweeping out the garage by dinner."

He doesn't even use my name. My eyes sting with tears, but I refuse to let them see how much it hurts me. I comfort myself with memories of Mason Dawes. The playful glint in his eyes when he fed me orange segments, then licked the juices from my lips. The safety I felt falling asleep on his knot, his arms wrapped around me. The tender way he bathed me and dressed me in his clothes.

Everything I did, no matter how furious it has made Father, was worth it. I have no regrets. I could never hurt the one man I know would never hurt me.

Then, about a week after my return, Father does his worst. He makes good on his longstanding threat.

"Dane, tell the omega to come to my study at two o'clock. An alpha is interested in seeing him."

This, while I'm standing at the kitchen sink, washing our dishes from breakfast.

Dane belches and stacks another plate on the counter for me to take care of. "Father wants you to go to his study?—"

"I heard!" I've had all I can take. Anger pulsing through me, I slam a fist into the dishwater, splashing Dane as much as myself.

My brother steps back, in shock, his mouth gaping. It's the most intelligent he's looked in years. Father is another story.

"Enough, Tristan!" He stands up at the table and kicks over the closest chair. As he barges across the kitchen toward me, his footfalls shake the room. "I have had enough of your disobedience. You've cost me money, a client, and my reputation in the underground art world. And if you think an alpha like Francis Colson will tolerate your insolence, you're sorely mistaken!"

Trembling, I shrink away from him, but Father grabs my arm and pulls me away from the sink. Tears stream down my cheeks as he drags me down to the basement. It's been my typical punishment since Papa died—and where I've been made to spend most of my time since returning home from Mason's. Father knows I hate it down there. It's dark, and the furnace is old and noisy. It spits smoke and ash from its pipes. Worst of all, there are spiders.

Don't get me started on the spiders.

"Father, please?—"

"What did you think was going to happen, Tristan?" he hisses, towing me down the stairs. "Did you imagine yourself in some sort of fairy tale? Did you believe Senator Dawes was going to rescue you, and you'd live happily ever after? You're nothing to him—and very soon, you'll be nothing to me and your brothers, too!"

"But I didn't?—"

"You'll stay here until it's time for you to wash up and meet Francis Colson—and when he arrives, you will be every bit the submissive omega you're supposed to be. Do you understand?"

Father shoves me roughly away from him, and I fall to the floor in the corner, right into a pile of cobwebs and ash. He's wrong. I'm not delusional. I knew there was no way for Mason and I to be together. It was a heat, clouding our judgment like some sort of enchantment—nothing more. And although I'm sure I could love Mason someday, he could never love me. I'm a thief. He was my mark. Even if there was a shred of hope, that truth alone would ruin us.

But as Father stomps away again, I don't argue or try to explain. There's no point. There's no making him listen.

The lock on the doorknob clicks. Then, I'm alone. Hugging my legs to my chest, I rest my head against the wall. I don't even care about the cobwebs—or the furnace, when it spews soot in my face.

I just think of Mason.

Hours pass. I doze. I daydream. I keep replaying my time with Mason to give me strength. Father may be a criminal, but he is a man of his word, so I can count on Francis Colson to be every bit as cold and cruel as he's always promised. I mourn for the kindness Mason showed me, knowing I'll never have it again.

Eventually, the door at the top of the basement stairs opens. A bar of light stretches down the steps, and I glimpse the toe of Blaise's favorite boots.

"Father said you should get ready to meet Mister Colson now."

I scramble to my feet, dusting the ash off my palms, my stomach churning. Blaise doesn't wait for me, so I trek upstairs alone.

I better get used to it. I have a feeling there's more loneliness in my future.

Is it possible to die from dread?

It can't be. I'm still here.

"He's very small, Rex."

Francis Colson walks a circle around me while I stand, naked, in Father's office. He's a heavy-set, bull-like man. His movements are labored, and his face is red from the exertion. He makes no effort to hide the effect I have on him, crudely grabbing at his groin to adjust his erection every few seconds. When he passes behind me, he gives my ass a quick slap, and I jolt.

It's utterly humiliating.

"All of the omega's measurements are in normal range, Frank. I assure you."

There Father goes again, speaking of me as if I'm not here. This time, I don't dare breathe a word or twitch a muscle in protest.

"But are you sure he'll be able to carry a child to term?"

"His physician confirmed there should be no complications, and he had his first heat recently."

I think Colson frowns. It's difficult to be completely certain—his overgrown, snow-white mustache blends into his beard, covering most of his mouth, but the way his wiry, untamed brows pucker gives his reaction away.

"Not ideal. The first heat is the most fertile—and the most likely to produce an alpha. I must have an alpha for my heir, Rex."

"Understood. I cannot, of course, guarantee he'll give you an alpha son, but his brothers are both fine alpha specimens. The omega's genetics are in your favor."

"Hmph. Perhaps." Colson sighs as though thoroughly put out. He catches me watching him, and his scowl deepens. Caught, I hang my head immediately.

You will be every bit the submissive omega …

"Walk to the other end of the room, Tristan. I want to see your gait."

At least Colson calls me by my name. That's more than Father will do right now. I bet I won't have to be an art thief anymore, either. I suppose that's an improvement.

To be honest, though, I have a fairly low bar.

Colson studies me as I pace to the window and back. He nods, and his brows relax a little. I'll take that as a good sign.

"Bend over now. I want to check that you're anatomically correct."

I jerk my head up and glance from Colson to Father. "What?"

Father glares. "You heard perfectly well." He turns to Colson then. "Please accept my apologies, Frank. He may seem strong-willed at the moment, but I assure you he is generally quite compliant."

The two alphas turn their eyes toward me, watching. Waiting. Tears sting my eyes and goosepimples break out over my skin. I suck in a breath, trying to work up the nerve to obey. I lean over slightly.

"That's not enough, Tristan. Grab your ankles. I need to see your pussy."

I cringe. He would call my hole a pussy .

Then, I think of Mason.

Mason never degraded me like this. He knew I don't have a pussy.

But before I have to decide whether to stay or run, we're interrupted.

It's Dane. He barely waits for a response to his knock on the door before barging in. Startled, I scramble to reach for my robe from the sofa, but I barely manage to pick it up before I drop it again.

"Father, Senator Dawes's town car just pulled into the driveway."

Mason's here?

I don't know how to think or feel. A second passes before my mind starts to work again. All it can manage are more questions.

Is he here for me or for Father?

It must be for Father—I never told Mason my full name. He couldn't have found me.

But what if he did anyway?

Does he know about the Fairchild forgery? Will he have me arrested?

Father's face turns red. He glances at me accusatorily, as though I could possibly have something to do with this—as if I dared to plan this, just to embarrass him.

"Tristan, go to your room," he barks, standing up behind his desk. "Dane, tell the Senator I'm away, but I'd be happy to meet him at the Waterstone Gallery tomor?—"

The words are barely out of his mouth before Blaise also appears in the doorway, Mason at his heels. My cheeks burn with mortification at the same time my heart leaps from my chest. Even without my heat, my attraction to him is overpowering—maybe even stronger than ever. My body longs to mold itself to his, but my legs seem unable to move.

"I tried to stop him, Father—" Blaise begins.

Father simply scowls him into silence. Then, forcing a grin, he turns toward Mason. "Senator, this is unexpected—but, of course, an honor. You have a question about the gallery, I assume? My omega son is meeting a prospective alpha mate, but we were finishing up, and I can be with you shortly."

"I'm not here about your gallery, Turner." Mason's eyes latch onto mine, shining kindly, and I can barely breathe.

He's here for me.

Somehow, he found out who I am. He's been looking for me.

Without waiting, Mason steps closer. He picks my robe up from the floor and gently drapes it over my shoulders. "Is that better, Tristan?"

A sob catches in my throat at his tender gesture, so I nod instead of trying to speak.

"What is happening here?" Colson snaps, glancing between us.

Mason simply ignores him.

"Tristan, I believe this belongs to you." He withdraws a small, silver object from his pocket and holds it out to me.

My lock pick. The eighth one. The one I lost in his study when my heat came on.

With trembling hands, I reach for it. "You found it."

He nods. "The morning you left."

Tears well in my eyes again. "You know the truth, then …"

"It wasn't too difficult." While he explains, Mason helps me finish putting on the robe, cinching the belt around my waist affectionately. "I remembered you talking about your Papa's paintings, and there was the way your Father looked at you during the fundraiser. It took a bit of digging before I realized you were Tristan Turner, son of Rex Turner. But when I did, everything fell into place."

Stowing the pick in one of the pockets of my robe, I stare back up at Mason. "I'm so sorry. I never wanted to?—"

"I understand." Mason cups my face in his hands and kisses my forehead. "It's all right."

He isn't angry. He understands.

It's a good thing he does because Father and Colson most certainly do not.

"Senator, I have to join Frank on this one. This is my house, and I deserve an explanation. I demand to know what you're doing with that lock pick—and, moreover, what are you doing with my s-son?" Father stumbles over his words, barely able to admit what I am to him. I suppose I should be offended, but that ship sailed much too long ago.

Bristling, Mason reels on Father, leaning over his desk to glare at him, eye to eye, alphas and equals. "I found that lock pick , Mister Turner, at my estate, on the floor by a priceless painting you designed to have stolen from my family. It was easy enough for my PI to trace its purchase back to a hardware store on Waterstone Street—the same street where there is a small shop that sells the candies your son requested as a modest comfort during a great time of need. It's also, I remembered, where your art gallery is located. After making these connections, it was rather easy to piece together Tristan's identity and the terrible task you charged him with. I think the police might be interested in our findings, don't you?"

Father seems to wilt beneath the weight of Mason's words. He lowers himself to his desk chair and runs his hands over his face.

He's afraid, I realize. He knows Mason's right. He's been caught. I have—I am —all the proof required to put him behind bars.

I've never seen Father afraid before. All my life, I thought it would give me joy to see him like this, but now, it only seems … sad.

Yet Mason doesn't stop there. His blue eyes glint, knowing he has the upper hand, as he continues, "And as for what I'm doing with your equally priceless son—though you clearly don't value him the way I do—I would have thought that to be obvious. I'm here to propose marriage to him. I would like to take him as my mate, but if he finds my proposal unacceptable, I would be satisfied to take him anywhere else he likes, as long as it's away from you."

Mason … wants me? Even after everything I've done?

His words seem impossible to believe. I swallow hard, head spinning, sure I've misheard. Maybe I'm going into heat again, my mind and body tricking me with their strange enchantments.

But I'm not.

"I don't know what you think you're doing, Senator," Colson blusters, trying to wedge his way between us, "but I won't stand for it. I am already negotiating with Rex Turner for this omega."

Father stands up again, his eyes narrow, his humbleness short-lived. "Colson is right, Senator. Whatever your intentions are with Tristan, I'm afraid it's too late. Now, if you were to reconsider involving the police in my more sensitive business affairs, perhaps I could be persuaded …"

My heart sinks. This omega , Colson called me. That's all I am to Father, too. First, his minion. Now, his bargaining chip. Always a thing, never a person.

Colson glares at Father. The wispy hairs of his moustache waver beneath his nose as he huffs in fury. "Turner, you can't be serious. I thought you were a man of your word?—"

Father huffs indignantly, and panic snakes down my spine. In seconds, this will be settled one way or another. Whether I like it or not.

But there's still another way.

"Claim me," I whisper to Mason, my lips tight, barely moving so Father and Colson can't see.

Confusion flickers over Mason's handsome face.

"Claim. Me. Hurry. Before he does."

"I don't believe in that," he whispers back.

"Sometimes, you have to join them to beat them." I raise my eyes to his, hoping he'll see everything I wish I could tell him in my gaze.

I'm not Luke , I want to say.

I want this.

I choose you.

But all that comes out of my mouth is one desperate, final word: "Please."

And without hesitation, Mason's stare darts to Father's. "I claim him," he says. "I, Mason Dawes, an alpha, claim the omega Tristan Turner as my mate in accordance with the laws of Arden. You are all my witness."

Father pales, and Colson froths again.

"You can't!" Colson argues. "Your very own claiming bill passed the Senate an hour ago—your claim is invalid."

Mason shakes his head. "The ban passed the Senate. It isn't listed as law yet. I still have time to file my claim on Tristan with Arden City Hall before it is. I'm prepared to go directly there from here—that is, if Tristan himself accepts my claim."

Father's glare hardens further. An omega has never, not once in recorded history, accepted his own claim. Once a claim is made, it is final, irrevocable unless the claimant himself opts to rescind it or the city clerk deems it illegitimate. Not even an alpha-parent can reject it.

But Mason's giving me the final choice. He looks down at me, expectant but hopeful. Of all the gifts he's given me since we met, this is the most precious: he's giving me freedom. Little does he know my heart already chose him days ago.

"Yes," I breathe.

Behind us, Father and Colson rant and seethe, but neither Mason nor I take notice. All that matters are citrus fruits and silk pajamas, skylights and second chances.

Beaming down at me like another crescent moon, Mason wraps his arms around me. The corner of his mouth crooks up. "I probably should have asked this before, Tristan, but you don't happen to know how to knot a tie, do you?"

"Of course." Laughing, I rest my arms on his shoulders. I have no idea what this is about, but I look forward to finding out. "Who doesn't?"